The Gamble
by power0girl
Summary: What would happen if Sherlock had to take part in a Murder Mystery Dinner? How will they all survive without actually killing him? What happens when people see what Sherlock and John are ignoring? Will become Johnlock, but has a generous helping of Mystrad plus one too. M, as it will get there soon. XXXXTHIS IS A SLASH FIC, DON'T READ IF YOU DON'T LIKE BOYS IN BED WITH BOYSXXXX
1. A Big Ask

Mrs. Hudson arranges and rearranges the biscuits on the plate. With an impatient toss of her short hair she turns to the cupboard and pulls out the pack of bourbon creams. "Think I'll need the big guns," she mumbles under her breath, adding half the pack to the plate, and then placing the plate on the tray. Taking a deep breath and looking toward the door, she tries to relax: she knows Sherlock will realise something is going on; still, didn't mean that she had to give it all away, without saying a word! Having calmed herself a bit, she picks up the tray and sets off up to 221B.

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John's eyes glaze over and he finds himself staring at the same line about subdural hygroma in his medical journal for a good five minutes. Shaking the daze off, he reaches for his cup and sees only murky dregs at the bottom. Grunting in irritation, he puts the journal down and glances around for Sherlock, who is sitting at the desk looking over some random papers in boredom.

"Sherlock, I'm going to make a cuppa, want one?" John says as he walks toward the kitchen. He pauses halfway across the sitting room and turns to Sherlock, to hear the answer.

"No John, and you shouldn't make one either," Sherlock comments as he shuffles papers.

John, confused, walks back towards Sherlock, "What? Why not?"

Sighing and shoving the offending papers away Sherlock blurts out, "_Boring_!" Then he turns his attention to John: "Because Mrs Hudson is on her way upstairs with a tea tray right now, I hear her on the stair."

Sure enough, as John stands there blinking, digesting this information, a trademark "Whoo-hoo" comes from the doorway.

"Boys, I brought up some nibbles; not that I'm your housekeeper, but I could do with a chat today if you don't mind."

John smiles and rushes to take the heavy tray. "Of course Mrs. Hudson; I'd love the distraction, and Sherlock certainly could use it as well! He's not had a case for a day or two, as I'm sure you know." He carries the tray over to the coffee table and sits on the sofa, gesturing for Mrs Hudson to sit down as well.

Sherlock observes the two of them settling down, chatting about the weather or something trivial like that; honestly he wasn't listening. His brain ticking overtime trying to discern the real reason their landlady came to see them. John was just pouring the last cup when Sherlock turns his chair, smiles and stretches, leaning all the way back and kicking his feet out in front of himself.

John notices the movement and warily puts the teapot down. "What's going on in that head of yours Sherlock?" Looking at the focus of his query, John misses Mrs. Hudson stiffening slightly and putting her cup down. Sherlock does not.

He continues to watch Mrs Hudson as she looks back at him evenly. Then, as suddenly as he leant back, Sherlock pistons forward into his contemplative pose and steeples his fingers together in front of his lips with his elbows on his knees.

"So what does Mycroft have to do with the biscuits Mrs. Hudson. Short of wanting to eat them all that is," he comments while swiping two of the bourbon creams along with his cup of tea.

John does a double take, "Mycroft? What?"

Mrs Hudson smiles slightly at the biscuits in Sherlock's hand. "You tell me, Sherlock dear; you've been quite bored."

Sherlock smiles. Biscuits gone already, he lowers his cup to his lap, adopting a standard derisive tone of voice as he rattles the observations off.

"Well, I heard you setting up the tray over half an hour ago, so you've been fussing over this little 'chat' for some time. It clearly means an awful lot to you, as not only did you dress very carefully; that _is_ the necklace we gave you for your birthday, wherein the card along with it, John wrote: 'to 'Mum', from your boys'. But your outfit is also trying to draw on the mother figure relationship we have with you. Clearly, you think I'm not going to like your request, given the number of biscuits on the plate," - he takes a breath and palms two more chocolate ones - "it concerns Mycroft, then. Now given that you've added extra bourbon creams, you want me to do something _with_ Mycroft. What exactly is it, Mrs Hudson dear?"

John has a half grin on his face. "Astonishing." he murmurs almost against his will.

Mrs Hudson looks at John and smiles. "Yes well, I do want you to do something with your brother, but it's a bit involved."

Sherlock smiles bitterly and gives her the 'go ahead' motion with his hand before returning to his thinking pose.

"You see, Marie is having a rough time of it right now." She notices John's blank look and Sherlock's impatient one. "Marie Turner, from next door." Sudden comprehension comes over John's face.

"Her 'married ones' have moved out, and she's broken-hearted over it. Dominic and Tom started the process for adoption this past spring, and their solicitor advised them that a more 'family friendly' address might be the difference between success and failure. So, given Dominic's great aunt has a house in Dulwich she's willing him, they decided to move in with her, help her out in her advanced years and have that desired address for their forms." Mrs. Hudson picks her teacup back up and fiddles with the spoon for a moment before going on.

"She was quickly successful in renting the space out, given the location being so desirable, as you well know. But she doesn't like the young man that has moved in. I think she's just holding him up against the example of Dominic and Tom, but she says he's cold to her, and it's got her rather down I'm afraid."

She looks from one to the other young man in the room with her; then, she fixes Sherlock with her calm watchful eyes again.

"For years she has been talking about throwing a big dinner, one of those Murder Mystery Dinners that were so popular a few years back. But she's never been happy with the halls she's looked into renting, well, the one's she could afford to rent that is..."

Held in the gaze of his landlady, Sherlock's eyebrows slowly start to climb his forehead. "You wish to use the Holmes Manor." There is no hint of a question in his voice.

"And..." Mrs. Hudson begins, prompting Sherlock on.

"You wish us to take part in the farce."

John, who till this point had been watching quietly, licks his lips and draws Mrs. Hudson's attention with a hand reaching out toward her. "You can't want Sherlock to take part; he'll," looking to his side at Sherlock for a moment as his hand tilts toward him, "No offense Sherlock, he'll have it solved before anyone can draw a breath."

Sherlock smirks, "Ah but John, I can't ruin the night if I'm the corpse, now can I?"

Mrs. Hudson is nodding along with Sherlock and John just laughs. "How exactly are _you_going to be a corpse? You'll get bored!"

"I'm sure watching you all bumble about trying to figure out who killed me will be amusing enough, but... You still think I'll refuse. Why?"

Mrs Hudson finishes her tea and places the cup precisely on the tray. Still looking at the tray, she forces the words out past a fake smile. "Because Marie already HAS the mystery kit and it's 'Arabian Nights'-themed."

Sherlock's eyes light up, "Ah, I see."

John flickers his glance back and forth between the two and tries to divine the answer. "Well I don't. Why is an Arabian-themed murder mystery the proverbial death knell for Sherlock?"

The smirk is back. "Never mind, John; my cross to bare."

Mrs Hudson can feel her face heating up, so she pops up and heads for the door before the blush can colour her cheeks. "Well I'll let you get to planning it then, shall I, boys? Do invite your brother, Sherlock; only fair if you want to use his house." Before either of the men can say another word, she's down the stairs and into her flat, the door shutting soundly behind her.

John looks after her in surprise, "Well, that wasn't odd at all now, was it, Sherlock?" Looking over at his flatmate, John sighs internally: Sherlock's already gone into his mind-palace. "Guess I'll take the tray down later then, shall I?" Still no answer. John shakes his head and grabs a lemon jammy dodger, knowing that if he left with the tray now there'd be a row over the remaining bourbon creams.

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The next morning, half way through his shift at the clinic, John's phone alerts him that he has a text. He calmly ignores the intermittent buzzing in his pocket till the young woman with the chest infection has gone, and then, John pulls out his phone. Before he can read the message, there's a quick knock at the door, and Sarah barges in.

"John," she says in a dark foreboding tone, "tell me you _did not_ give Sherlock Holmes my mobile number?!" John just stares at her in shock for a fraction of a second, then smiles winningly. "No Sarah, you and I parted ways amicably; I wouldn't do that to you."

"All right then, how did he get it?" She waves the mobile screen in his face as he looks back and forth, from his, to hers, to his again. He mutters distractedly, "I don't know, he's Sherlock Holmes, how does he do any of it?... Look we have the same message."

Her rant, interrupted, she looks at the devices too. "It seems we do; well, at least it's not a set-up, then."

There, on both their mobiles, the message read:

"Urgent. Meet me at Angelo's at your earliest convenience. SH"

John sighs and types in a response,

"We're not available till after 6PM. JW&SS".

Smiles at Sarah, showing her the message. "Saves you the 12p at least."

His phone pings again,

"Could be dangerous. SH"

Shaking his head at Sherlock's typical mood, he quickly responds,

"Sarah and I _are_ the doctoring staff for the day, not closing up shop for you. JW"

John smugly returns the phone to his pocket, and Sarah turns to leave the office, complaining. "What are we getting our selves into?"


	2. Things Come Together

Fighting a wave of apprehension, John reads the sign on the door as he opens it for Sarah. 'Closed for private function.' that did not bode well. Indeed, Angelo was glaring at him already; gesturing Sarah, forward he avoids a confrontation with the restaurateur by looking deep into the room for Sherlock, and seeing quite a few people he didn't expect: Mycroft for one, Anderson and Donovan for others. Sherlock is standing with Mycroft, and as soon as he catches John's eye, the faint expression of irritation and frustration vanishes. Turning from Mycroft, he zones in on John immediately.

"John! Thank god you've finally come, I wasn't sure I could stand the idiocy that emanates from all of these people a fraction of a moment longer!"

Smiling at Sherlock's antics John almost misses the gleam in Mycroft's eye, before it's tempered with a bland friendly greeting... almost.

"John, so glad you could make it after a hard day of saving the rest of us from the flu. Sherlock said you were absolutely swamped at work." Turning his bland expression away from John he greets Sarah as well. "I'm sure indispensable works were underway, hmm?"

Sarah having missed Mycroft's first comment greeting Angelo, takes a second and assesses the actual intent of the ridiculously impeccably dressed man in front of her. With a natural flair, she cocks her hip and balances her hand on it saucily, "Why do I have the feeling I'm talking to Holmes Sr, and that I _don't_ want to agree with what ever it was I missed?"

John barks out a laugh, and remembers why he started dating Sarah in the first place: she's quick and just a bit of a fire cracker! Not for the first time he finds himself a bit sad they didn't work out. Sherlock, grinning wolfishly at her scathing comment, teasingly scolds John.

"My! How good she is at seeing through Mycroft's ploys! How could you have let this one go, John?"

Sarah blushes a bit and wraps an arm around Sherlock, "Well you could always keep me around to scare him off." Sherlock looks down at her with a confused look and Mycroft grins a tiny bit, actually grins!

"No, my dear lady," taking her hand and kissing the back, "my poor brother wouldn't know the first thing about keeping you. Not his area, you see." Straightening to see just a touch of a blush staining her cheeks. "I might have an idea or two, though..."

John stands there jaw agape, as Mycroft leads a blushing Sarah away from them, still talking to her. Sherlock watches them for a moment, then looks to John. "Well that went better than I had thought it would."

His brain suddenly running off a cliff at the thought of Mycroft and Sarah snogging, John suddenly remembers, "But wait? Doesn't Mycroft have something going on with Greg?" Sherlock snorts, "As much as you and I do, my dear blogger."

John isn't listening though; he's looking at Lestrade, who seems to be watching the chatting couple with interest. Suddenly his eyes snap over to John and he smiles in greeting.

At this point Angelo announces dinner being served, and that they should all take their seats. John is surprised to see a waiter changing a few seating cards around, positioning Sarah to his left, Mycroft to hers, and Greg one more spot further over! As John sits down beside Sherlock, he catches a mischievous smile on his flatmates face as he watches the three awkwardly sit down to John's left.

Shaking his head ruefully, John scans the table to his right. There's Mrs. Hudson, and Mrs Turner; to her right Molly, who John waves at, Donovan and then Anderson to her right, whom he ignores. Then there's Dimmock, and to his right Anthea carrying on to Lestrade; twelve in all.

In a terse whisper, "Sherlock why are Anderson and Donovan here, let alone Dimmock and Anthea?" - John leans close to hear Sherlock's response.

His eyes roll and Sherlock snorts in irritation, "The thrice damned Murder Mystery Dinner has a set number of attendants. Though I suppose I could have switched out Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dee for your Bill and Harry."

John pretends to think about his perpetually drunk sister and his army buddy in this setting for a moment, "Uhm, _no_."

"Just as I thought. Murray would undoubtably spend most the night regaling us with stories of your heroism, which you would not find comforting. Not that a drunk Harriet would do better; no, she'd cover your childhood years in embarrassment. These two are an unfortunate, but acceptable evil."

John nods silently in agreement as Sherlock turns away and accepts a bread basket from Angelo, putting eleven envelopes in it. He offers it to John first, clearing his throat. "Here we are people, take one and pass it on. I'll explain things when we've each got an envelope.

When the basket makes it's way back around to Sherlock empty, Anderson pipes up. "Oi! Why don't you have a bloody card? I'm not going to do something mortifying unless you do!"

Leveling him a glare, Sherlock carries on as if he hadn't spoken. "Now, as a favour to our lovely landlady, John and I are throwing a Murder Mystery Dinner at my brother's residence. Before anyone says anything, I am taking the position of the victim, so that the rest of you have half a chance of enjoying yourselves solving the murder."

As he talks, the waiters quietly arrive, serving the meals people have pre-ordered. John, who arrived too late to do so, looks down to see his favorite seafood pasta and a glass of a nice white. Sarah has a similarly nice surprise appearance of a gnocchi dish.

"In the next days you will guard the identity in your envelope carefully, _and_ within 3-5 days, visit the address of the tailor on the business card therein to be measured. Your costumes will be dropped off 2-3 days after that. There is _no_ negotiating that! If you agree to attend, you will wear the costume provided and turn up at the Holmes Manor appropriately. Not everyone is a character; after all someone has to solve this thing if I'm 'dead'! The party itself will be a week after the last costumes have been made, so two weeks tonight."

"Now please put the cards away and look at them at home, preferably alone!"

With that, the unlikely crew have a pleasant evening chatting about what _might_ be in the envelopes.

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Lestrade sits in the drivers seat of his panda car, tapping his envelope on the steering column. His gaze traveling to Anderson in the back, who is already ripping his open. Donovan clears her throat and stretches her neck around to see into the back. "What did you get?" Her right hand fumbling in her pocket for her envelope. "Audience member; why on earth do I still have to go for a fitting?!"

Peering across the cab of the panda at Donovan, he waits for her to open and read hers too. "Audience too. What IS this crap?" she throws her card and envelope onto the dash and fixes Lestrade with a withering look. "What the hell is the point in this?"

The object of her current ire does not respond immediately. He calmly finds the end of the envelope he's tapped the card down into, he then travels the length of the envelope and slips the edge of his thumb nail under the opening of the adhesive strip, and pulls, using that to tear the whole end off the envelope right off.

Sally Donovan practically chews a hole through her lip in irritation as she waits for her boss to 'get on with it!' Suddenly she grabs at the envelope to tear it away, only to realise Lestrade has the card, and she just has a torn envelope in her hand. He quietly reads for a second, then nods. "Also audience."

Anderson tees off in the back with that. "What was the bloody point in inviting us if we aren't taking part in the actual fun bits? Who does Sherlock think he is? I bet he planned it this way, so we can all look like fools sitting there while they're all dressed up. God _knows_ what this bloody high class taylor is going to land us in. I'm not going to look like a runway freak like _him_ for a night!"

"Anderson! Shut. Up." More due to the calm, almost quiet tone in his voice, Lestrade gets his wish, as the other two just goggle at him silently.

"Number one: The point in inviting us was, I believe, to fill the numbers of a party he is throwing for his landlady. A perfectly lovely lady who should be sainted for what she puts up with from Sherlock, and the Met wandering through _her _house at all hours. Drug busts don't just bother Sherlock, I'll have you you know."

"Secondly, I don't believe for a second that he has ulterior reasons for inviting us to this dinner. He just wants this done. He doesn't _care_ what we show up in, I know, for a fact, the taylor was Mycroft putting his ore in. So if you look like a 'runway freak' for the night, go out to the clubs after and you might just pull."

"Lastly, and let this one percolate for a while, if Sherlock is the victim, a 'dead' body who can not speak or interact with us, he is going to hate it. He is going to loathe _every_ second, and on top of that, _we_ get to solve the crime. _We_ get to be the ones who figure it all out while he _can not_. Don't you think that makes it worth it?"

Silence permeates the car for a few minutes; Donovan is nodding to herself, and Anderson just looks stunned. Then they all get out and head back into New Scotland Yard for their night shift.

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Standing in the middle of his bedroom John reads, and re-reads the card. The word that sticks out is _Sultan_. He's going to have to dress up and behave like a sultan: this was going to be tricky. Shaking his head, he replaces the card in the envelope and grabs his cable oatmeal pullover. After stowing the envelope in his bedside table he rushes off for his appointment with the tailor.

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Bright and early the following Monday, John is greeted by Sarah in his office with an irritated expression already at home on her face.

"Should I back out again slowly and pop out to Costa?"

Sarah starts suddenly, "What, oh! No, no... Well yes, that would be lovely, but let's talk first."

Moving over to sit in his chair, John smiles. "Okay then What can I do for you?"

"Promise me, John, that this crazy dinner isn't going to go completely out of control. Promise me that ... I don't know what. John I'm scared that this is madness; aren't you?"

Thinking back to Mycroft seemingly chatting her up all night Friday (and not always alone!), John tilts his head slightly to the left and watches her fidget for a bit. "Which part; the dinner, or going out to coffee with Mycroft?"

With a choked off coughing sound, Sarah stares at him for a few seconds before any sound makes it's way out. "Uhm, well... both I guess?"

"Right!" John presses the intercom button. "Evelin? How busy are we this morning?"

A tinny voce responds, "You have one appointment in ten minutes."

"And Sarah?"

"She has three, now till 9:30."

Hanging up the phone, he sees Sarah to the door, "Okay, you go, see your patients I'll see my one and make sure Evelin doesn't book more this morning. I'll see you in your office at 9:30, and I'll bring the Costa, sound good?"

Sarah smiles easily, "Yes! Exactly what I need; thank you, John, your a great friend." With that she rushes off again.

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There's a harsh buzzing from downstairs, shortly followed by Mrs. Hudson calling up to them. "Boys! The costumes have arrived! Come get yours."

John looks over at Sherlock who seems to be staring into his microscope without recognition of the call. Sighing under his breath, John drops the paper onto the the table and heads down to get the packages.

"Oh John dear, isn't this getting exciting? I've put mine away already, but here are yours and Sherlock's. Funny, yours is bigger, but Sherlock's seems just as heavy, even though it's a third the size!"

John takes the boxes and notes that indeed the smaller one IS heavy; it might even be heavier than his. Shaking his head, John tunes back into Mrs. Hudson, who was talking this whole time. "Hmm, what was that?"

"Goodness John, I was talking about your friend Miss Sarah! I said I thought D.I. Lestrade and her make an adorable couple, don't you?"

John blinks rapidly, and thinks back to his conversation with Sarah the day before.

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Sarah blows over the top of her mocha, avoiding looking at John. Eventually she realises this only works for so long and sits back in her chair, leaving the drink to cool.

"John, I just... I just don't know what to do."

John, who was quietly watching her with his hands folded in his lap, the lid off his tea as it sits cooling on the desk, smiles helpfully. "Do about what Sarah?"

"Well, you know how those Holmes brothers think, right? You know what it's like being close to them?"

John, with an amused waggle of his hand, states indefinitely, "I wouldn't say I 'know' anything about those two, but I've survived being Sherlock's flatmate for a while now. What do you need to know?"

Sarah fixes him with a long searching look, "You seriously are trying to tell me, you are nothing more to Sherlock than a flatmate? Don't think I'm inclined to believe you!"

John stares at her in confusion for a fraction of a second; then in an effort to change the topic, repeats, "What do you need to know?"

Not noticing, or perhaps choosing not to comment on, the lack of rebuttal Sarah leans in towards him again, gathering up her drink. "Mycroft is just so confusing! Most of the time I'm sure he's just taking the piss, and then I think I see real actual emotion in his expression... I just don't know! It's not like he's anywhere as easy as Greg to read. He's so kind and considerate, just like you; I can practically _read_ it on his face! But should that worry me too? Is he too much like you? After all _we_ didn't work out, so does that mean Greg and I won't too? What do I do?

John looks flummoxed for a moment, then suddenly looks intrigued. "They were _both_ chatting you up Friday night; Sherlock was right!"

Sarah flushes hotly, "Well I'm _not_ going out with both of them. Mycroft just spent the whole night complimenting me on everything from my intelligence to my ability to put up with you and his brother! Now Greg didn't chat my ear off all night, but we are going out Wednesday for coffee, and I don't know what to think. I was so sure Mycroft was going to ask, that when Greg asked, I was looking at Mycroft as I gave my answer to him! John, they chuckled at my confusion, and Greg patiently pointed out _he_ was the one inviting me out! I'm still embarrassed about it. What do I do?"

John blinked at her his eyes a bit wide. "Your asking me?! Sarah, you, of all people, must understand! I've failed at every relationship I've entered into since being invalided home."

"Just the normal relationships, John, which is why I think your advice will be the best for me." John fixes Sarah with a withering look, but doesn't say anything for a long moment.

"Well, thank you, John. Even just talking that whole mess out helped me a lot! I guess I just have to trust Greg won't let Mycroft do anything unseemly. I can trust Greg, can't I?"

John's frustrated look vanishes under a positive calm expression. "Yes, yes you can. I'd stake my life on it!"

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"Gracious, Mrs Hudson?! I'm pretty sure Greg barely said six words to her, how do you go from that to they'd be a good couple?"

Mrs Hudson smiles at him and gestures in the direction of her sitting room, "Come sit down and have a cup of tea with me, John." With a shrug and a glance up the stairs, he follows her into her flat.

As she bustles around with her teapot and water, Mrs Hudson watches John circumspectly, as he puts the packages down and gives Sherlock's an odd look again. Stifling a laugh, Mrs Hudson fills the cups and places spoons in the saucers; after all _she_ knows exactly why the package is so small. "So... You were asking?"

John snaps his eyes towards her, just a fraction guiltily. "Oh yes, yes, I was confused that you had jumped to the conclusion that Sarah and Greg would make a good couple. Not that I disagree, I just... didn't think it was obvious to all and a sundry. Lestrade is a pretty subtle guy about these things."

"Mmmm. I know a few blokes like that, I think, Doctor Watson." Mrs Hudson tries, and mostly succeeds, to suppress the grin as she passes John his cup.

John just snorts and snags a biscuit too.

"No, more seriously, John, it was plain there was something going on there. Even though Mycroft was keeping Sarah's attention, every time the D.I. dropped a question into the flood of conversation, she'd respond right away!"

John's eyebrows pop up in surprise at that comment; clearly he missed a few things the other night. "You Mrs Hudson, are a very clever, observant woman."

Now her smirk wins out, and they quietly finish their tea.

"John, I... I hope you know that things can change for a person at any time in their lifetime; nothing in is written in stone."

John looks up at her over the edge of his tea cup, finishes the sip he was about to take, and places the tea cup on the tray and matches her even gaze. He can feel his face getting warmer, so he clears his throat and breaks the visual contact. "I'm aware of that, Mrs Hudson. After all I didn't set out in my Uni days to be half of an internet sensation team of crime solvers."

"Just so, John, just so." She looks down at the empty cup, "You all done? Well I guess you better get those costumes upstairs before Sherlock thinks we've done away with them."

A bit surprised at this dismissal, John just nods and pera forma kisses Mrs Hudson on the cheek as he stands. "I'll just dash then; thank you for the tea."

"Course dear," she says as she leans into the gesture, smiling. "Any time."

Just uploading this while watching the closing of the Olympic Games. Way to bloody go Britain, we kicked arse!

I wanted to thank everyone for reading, following, faving as well as reviewing. I hope I don't disappoint anyone.

Ta


	3. Surprises In Black Boxes

Chapter 3: Surprises In Black Boxes

Having left Sherlock's costume on the sofa in the sitting room, John opens his package carefully, untying the cord holding it shut. With a muffled curse, he tries to grab at a large, thin, black box with a wide red band across it, that tries to slide off his bed and fall to the floor. John lets out a shout of surprise, followed by bellowing Sherlock's name. Moments later feet can be heard on the stairs.

"John? Are you alright?"

Coughing once to clear his throat John answers as he's picking up the box. "The door is," staring at it in shock, "my god, it's open."

Yanking the door open with little finesse, "What is _wrong_ with you John?" Sherlock quickly notices the box in John's hands. "Oh it's that. Really, John, it's just part of the costume."

John's eyes, finally, leave the object in his hands, and he looks up at Sherlock with disbelief. "Part of a costume?! Sherlock I'm currently holding a fairly heavy box from Garrard. Garrard, Sherlock; the oldest, poshest jeweler in the _world,_ Sherlock. For a Murder Mystery Dinner we are throwing for our _landlady! Just_ part of the costume you say!?"

Sherlock, smirks, and pulls the box from John's hands, placing it on the bed with the rest of the package. "Relax, John, the pieces are only on loan. They will go back. Besides, you have gotten one of the biggest boxes, as Sultan."

John's brain currently still spinning from the involvement of Garrard, takes several seconds to snap onto this new bit of information. He blinks rapidly five or six times, shakes his head quickly and inhales abruptly; his voice then comes out low and grumbling. "How did you know I'm the Sultan, Sherlock?"

"Well, beyond the fact that I can see the quality of the material denotes upper class, and recognised the dye colours fit for the Sultan, I did of course order the envelopes so that _you_ got the Sultan card."

John slowly sinks down onto the bed beside the costume. "Why?" comes out, sounding resigned and exhausted.

Sherlock pulls away from him a bit, leaning back against the chest of drawers in the room. There is no response for a few moments, as he looks at John thoroughly, deducing everything that is there in John to see. Coming to a conclusion, he nods once, sharply.

"Right, I've pushed too far I see, so I'll come clean." He fusses with the buttons on his cuffs a bit, undoing them. "I've known who I have to be in this little party of ours since Mrs Hudson asked us her favour."

"'Your cross to bear' you said." A thoughtful look replaces the disbelief on John's face now.

"Yes, exactly, but just as I knew this, I also knew that you had to take the Sultan's part." Sherlock hesitates a bit, and John jumps in.

"I know _you_ think I have to be the Sultan, but could you at least have the respect to explain _why_?!"

Looking a touch hunted, as well as frustrated, Sherlock turns toward the doorway. "Can we go sit, have a cup of tea maybe, and I'll try to explain to your satisfaction."

John sighs and hangs his head forward; rubbing vigorously at his forehead and eyes to ease the tension, he visibly gathers himself up. "All right, Sherlock, let's go have a cuppa. _Then_ you will answer every question I ask. Understood?"

"Yes of course." With that clipped tone, Sherlock abruptly disappears downstairs.

John stares after him for a few moments collecting in his head what he is going to ask; then, he leaves the room and goes directly to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. Allowing his vision to go out of focus a bit, he absently looses himself in the process of making tea until he's sitting in his chair with his cup in hand, peering over the edge at Sherlock.

"I don't want this conversation to ruin the party," John states definitely, "so I'd like only the information I need to understand what's going on. Can you do that?" Sherlock just nods.

Satisfied John lets his vision lose focus again, as though that helps him find the right question. "Why does it matter to your character that I be the Sultan?"

Sherlock looks a bit bewildered, "You surprise me, John; I thought you'd work up to that one. Well, the answer is easy: my character will require a physical closeness to the 'Sultan' character, and while we don't _usually_ spend a lot of time touching physically, your the only person I can stand the idea of touching under such circumstances."

John's back to blinking in shock; then he utters one word: "Physically?"

Sherlock's retort a blunt, "Yes."

Taking a big breath, John fights a squirming sensation in the pit of his stomach. "How?"

Sherlock drains his cup and sets it down; leaning back he crosses his legs and scrutinizes John for a while. Then watching for any changes in his flatmate, Sherlock spits out his answer. "I should expect I will spend most of my time, before getting 'murdered', on my knees at your feet."

John unclogs his throat with difficulty, "Is there more, Sherlock?" John's surprised to see a touch of colour tinge the upper edges of Sherlock's cheekbones.

"I'll most likely not have much kit on. In order to _not_ spend the whole night with both of us blushing like tomatoes, I should think I need to practice."

Without a word, John stands, takes the two cups and makes more tea. This time, he pulls out a bottle of Tesco's blended scotch and adds a slug to each cup. Hesitates over his own cup, thinking of adding a second one, but then resolutely closes the bottle and puts it away with the rest of his hot toddy ingredients. He then returns to the sitting room and gives one cup to Sherlock.

"John...?"

John holds a hand up between them in caution. "No Sherlock, just drink it; I don't care if you don't usually drink. You are about to explain to me why you have to walk around in less than a normal amount of clothing, _and_ you want to be at my feet like some sort of pet, or..." John's eyes get big and round. "Tell me you aren't dressing in drag."

Sherlock took a sip of his 'tea', and shaking his head 'no' as he coughs over the bite of the scotch-laden tea.

"So your... my Harem Boy?" His voice rising to a squeak at the end of the statement.

Sherlock just nods and takes another big swallow of his 'tea'. "I think I'll don my swimming costume and practice in that, if you think that is suitable?"

John shakes his head violently, then bolts his drink in one go. "Uhm, can we not work up to it? Like, have you roll up your sleeves for a day or two, then maybe take the shirt off?"

Sherlock snorts a laugh, "No John. At that rate of exposure I'll still be clothed by Christmas! It's July, John; July." Sherlock watches as John goes into the kitchen and makes himself another 'medicated' cup of tea; he surmises John really is on the edge.

"Look, why don't we start with the kneeling part?" A loud crash and some cursing are John's response. Picking up the bin, he just sweeps the china off the counter and drops the bin back in it's spot. With a slightly shaking hand, he wipes up the liquid remaining with the dish cloth and methodically rinses and hangs it to dry.

This done, he turns to Sherlock, "I am going to go to bed." he shakes his head 'no' to the interruption of a thousand questions coming on Sherlock's lips. "I'm go to bed now, and we can talk about this insanity in the morning." With that, he turns and heads for the stairs, and Sherlock is forced to call out to his retreating back, "But John, it's only half seven!"

"Goodnight, Sherlock!" his only reply.


	4. Subconscious Truths

Chapter 4: Subconscious Truths

There's a warm twisting low in his gut as John stretches his spine; he can feel the sensation doubling. A low moan dribbles from his lips as disembodied hands snake up his calves to rub at the skin behind his knees, sensitizing till he _has_ to move - just a bit - into the pressure. Somehow he's on his back, but he's sitting up? And his legs are bent, planted on the mattress? Yes! That's it! He can _feel_ the smooth, slippery sheets - oh, they're _silk_ - under his hands as they slip and catch when he fists them, anything for more traction. The hands are bolder now. They move just a bit, tickling up his inner thighs a few centimeters and then back down; a tiny bit further up each return stroke before going back down again.

"Like the tide coming in John. _Inevitable_."

John's brain jumps the track and everything in his body locks up at the sound of that _voice_ originating from the foot of the bed. His cock tightens unbearably so as his mind recognises the low baritone rumble of his flatmate's voice. The simulated tide rushes up his thighs now, lapping at his crease - a broken cry is wrenched from his lips as he feels the _tide_ crashing down on his cock. Enveloped by unbearable heat John mewls in desperation as his climax rushes through him, a sudden flood of forceful bliss and the feeling he's expanding and collapsing all at once.

As the sensation of pulling eases on his now supine member, John trembles as he hears that voice comment, "You see John, there are _so many_ things I could do from _my knees_ at _your feet_." Mischievous delight in every curve of his body Sherlock is suddenly visible at the foot of the bed, clad in only a racing speedo.

John bolts upright in his own bed now awake.

He sits there a minute or two, just trying to get his breathing to regulate; after it's slowed a bit he moves to lie back down and has to suppress a squeak as he feels very wet pants moving around him. Trying hard to suppress his panic, he whips the pants off, rubs half-heartedly at his groin and tosses the pants in a corner. Then he dives under the covers for some quality hiding time.


	5. Surprises All Around

Chapter 5: Surprises All Round

Sarah looks around the interior of 'Dose' pleased she had managed to arrive before Greg. She's been here a few times before, since it was close to the Barbican tube station, her first leg in the journey home from work, and she quite likes the atmosphere.

There aren't many people in the cozy space, as it's later than the post work crowd, but too early for the dinning out or theater crowds. Along the far right wall there is a bench for people to sit waiting for their order, or enjoying it. At the moment three people are sitting along it's length, two seemingly together, wearing very expensive suits and talking animatedly to one another. The third looking, a bit familiar, wearing a maxi dress, from some designer or other, Sarah couldn't care who, typing away on her mobile.

Smiling at the barista, she points to a table in the corner at the end of the bench. Sitting with her back to the cafe so she could look out the window for Greg, she has just barely started on her coat buttons, before the door opens, and Greg is there.

Flashing that great smile of his he wanders over to her, "Guess you haven't been here long?"

"No, no." Sarah gestures at her half undone buttons as proof. "Only a few seconds really."

"Perfect! Can I get you a drink then?" He offers turning his body toward the barista, but not breaking eye contact.

"Sure..." Sarah thinks fast, "then I can go up and get a selection of sweets for us."

Greg's smile widens, if it's possible, "Of course, might want to ease into the treats, spread it out so we don't get rushed though."

"Oh," a devious light sparkles in her eye, "good idea!"

Greg turns fully back to her and waits a second before prompting again. "You would like..."

"Oh goodness, sorry!" Sarah's whole body posture, which had been very forward and tense (worried about how this was going to go, Sherlock would say if he was there) suddenly breaks and she slumps back against her chair. "I'd love a 'gibraltar' please Greg."

Turning back to the counter Greg calls back to her, "Oh ho! A 'gibraltar' what's that now?" Smiling winningly at the barista, "Two 'gibraltars' please."

Moments later he comes back with two distinct lowball glasses filled to the brim with caffeinated goodness. Placing one in front of Sarah he takes the other chair with his back to the window. "This is interesting, I've never had this drink before, mini late he called it?"

Sarah smiles admiring the complex pattern on the surface, "I know! I ordered one by accident one day and just fell in love!"

Greg feigns trying to steal the drink away, "So this is my contender is it?! Foul refreshment, I will defeat you!"

Sarah giggles and thinks to herself that this is shaping up to be a wonderful date.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sarah sat back in her chair, laughing at the story Greg just told about Sherlock dressing Anderson down over some small thing at a crime scene. John had been right, Greg is amazing! She was _just_ thinking she could fall into his dark, endless eyes, when something in her peripheral vision snags her attention. Behind her on the bench the two suits were still there, she checks her watch, they had been there for over an hour and a half! What were two after work types doing there for so long.

"Something wrong?"

Sarah's attention pops back to Greg. "Uhm, wha? No, nothing, I just noticed we'd been here quite a while, and" pointing across her body and slightly over her left shoulder, "so have they. I guess I pegged them for the take away, not stay in type."

Suddenly there is a presence beside her, "That would be, my dear, my fault."

Sarah's eyes grow big and round as she turns her disbelieving gaze to see Mycroft sliding onto the bench to her left. "I'm afraid they are here because of me. I wanted to make this meeting as private as possible, so between my people and James the owner," gesturing to the barista, "who has been only serving 'to go' orders this evening. We have the place to our selves."

Sarah just stares at Mycroft for a few moments, interrupted only by the woman in the maxi dress arriving with a large platter and a pot of tea for Mycroft. Sarah just stares, realising that the familiar woman was at the dinner at Angelo's the previous week. On the plate she carries there are a few different types of brownies, tiramisu cake, ginger & guinness, and something called earl grey and chocolate, or so the woman told the table in general.

"Thank you Anthea, please tell James he can close up now."

Anthea smiles and turns to discuss things with the owner.

Sarah darts a look to Greg, who contrary to looking put out that his date has been crashed, has a bemused humoring look to his features. As though this happens all the time and he's quite happy to suffer the consequences. Quiet shock in her tone of voice Sarah pins Greg with a question. "You knew he was coming tonight, didn't you?" Greg just smiles.

Mycroft pauses in doling out the cake to respond to Sarah, "Well of course he did, we had some semblance of an idea you and I got on alright given the wonderful conversation we were having last Friday night. That is by no means and easy feat either my dear, I'm horrible to keep up with, or" giving Greg a bemused smile, "so I've been told. No, Gregory wished to have some alone time to get to know you, and we thought that this was the best way to go forward. And I can see by your accelerated breath, and almost unfathomable pupils that it was the correct thing to do. You are very much invested in _my_ Gregory, which is beneficial to us all I think."

Sarah can feel her blood racing through her veins, making her dizzy with it's speed as her mind grabs onto one TINY bit of all that discourse. "_Your_ Gregory?" She looks from one to the other of them as the unimaginable becomes reality in front of her eyes. "You and Greg are involved?"

Mycroft smiles, but doesn't respond as he slides the slice of tiramisu cake in front of her, and the ginger & guinness over to Greg. Greg strokes his hand along the length of Mycroft's hand as it retreats to his side of the table. Sarah feels slightly detached from reality as she watches the man she'd been in the process of pulling, exchanging tender looks with the overpowering man she'd flirted with all last Friday night.

Greg's beautiful growly voice cuts through the buzzing in her ears straightaway. "This must be quite confusing, is there anything you would like to know?"

Sarah gives him a bland look, then picks up her fork and takes a large bite of her cake, it is lovely - of course it is - she thinks briefly of asking after the recipe; nodding once to herself she places her fork carefully on the edge of her plate, tines down, and looks at her companions. Mycroft is looking at her with undisguised interest, and Sarah is sure that is an unusual state for him. Greg is looking at her with concern and gentle sensual interest; she swallows as a fluttering inside her responds to, and magnifies that look.

Mycroft clears his throat and the room empties, his employees out the front door which James locks and then exits into the back leaving the key on the counter. Sarah looks over at Mycroft and is surprised to see a warmth blazing in his eyes; even more surprised it's aimed at her!

His cultured tenor voice suddenly distracts her from the way her eyes, of their own volition, are appraising his physical features. "Dear lady, do you have any questions?"

Deciding to just suss this out, Sarah stands, turns and begins to walk back and forth in the seating area. "Right... ok. I want to understand what exactly you two think is going on here. So I'm going to ask a few questions. Got it?"

They both nod.

"Okay... Are you two in a romantic relationship?" She watches both of their faces cautiously. Mycroft looks down at his cuffs straightening them slightly, and Greg just smiles encouragingly at her, and growls out an answer.

"I'm not certain you could call it romantic at the moment, but I try."

Mycroft gives a wry grin, "Not my area you know."

"So..." Sarah blushes hotly, "it's just physical then?"

Greg's eyes flit to Mycroft, but he's not looking him in the eye, more tracing the arch of Mycroft's neck. "Well it certainly started that way, but I find I enjoy Gregory's attentions more than I thought I would. He has this way of taking something sexual and wringing out emotions that I could _swear_ were not there." His face a touch contorted in his confusion, Mycroft none the less keeps eye contact with Sarah.

"How did you come together?" This time as Sarah speaks Mycroft's cheeks colour and Greg speaks up.

"I was taking Sherlock to task for something on the phone, using duress to get a confession or something like that, when Mycroft, in all his splendor, swanned in and took the receiver from me and hung up the phone. He looked down at me with that snide expression on his face and said 'You know that would only apply if Sherlock _was_ part of the Service. As it is, my dear brother has only pricked the conscience of the criminal in question. I'm sure he'll provide a confession without further prompting by your people.' I stared up at him with my eyes only, not having moved a muscle since he barged in, as I was reveling in a truly shocking occurrence. I was..."

Greg leaves off a second grimacing lightly, clearly not sure how blunt to be. "Well, not to put too fine a point on it, I was painfully aroused. A state I was no longer familiar with, as that part of my life had died down. Between the number of hours I was working and my marriage 'going west', as they say, for several years now, I was unused to such reactions. So I was in a bit of a state of shock." Laughs at himself under his breath and flickers a look over to Mycroft who's cheeks are crimson now.

"After a few moments my expression must have telegraphed the situation to him as his expression began to shift."

"Shift?!" Mycroft breaks in, "I couldn't understand where your three brain cells had gone, and then suddenly it was clear to me, regardless of the desktop covering you up, I could read in your posture that you were aroused - which shocked me, in a way."

"Why?" The question is out of Sarah's mouth before she realised she was asking, and she tries to portray a comforting expression over her nakedly curious one.

Mycroft's face twists with displeasure, and Greg puts a hand on his arm, gripping it to reassure his lover. "I'm not what one would call conventionally sexy, I tend to carry a stone (Greg murmurs "It isn't that much") more weight than I should. I tend toward the ginger side of colouring. Though I see how you would not see that as a strike against me, but Gregory is more pict-ish in his colouring with those wonderful eyes... In any case, before Gregory's blatant lust, the only time I saw such an expression, it was preceded by a look of calculation. Someone trying to weigh out what possible benefits they could gain by having something to hang over me. Strangely I found myself reacting to this."

Greg gives Mycroft's arm a final squeeze and then pulls away, attention back on his narrative. "Oh yes! His expression went through shock, confusion, horror, then finally to lust itself. So I adjusted things and then commanded he follow me. He fussily positioned his coat over his arm to preserve his dignity, and I lead him to an empty interrogation room, stopping only to make sure the automatic recorder was only saving into the temp memory, not the hard drive. I locked that room then locked us inside the interrogation room."

Fiddling with something in his jacket pocket he looks consideringly at Sarah. "Does your TV, or DVD player have a flash drive port?"

Sarah's eyes widen a touch, and Mycroft looks agitated, "Yes, my TV does."

Then as a look of horror comes to life in Mycroft's eyes, Greg pulls a flash drive out and tosses it to her. She catches it reflexively and hesitates before putting it away. "Mycroft do you not want me to watch this?"

And just like that the wide frightened eyes and the blushing is all gone. "No my dear lady, just my mind jumping to a million horrible situations where that is not the only copy of that 'interrogation session'." The smirk is back full force, "You will have us at a disadvantage there after, will you not?"

Sarah blushes, but tilting her chin up aggressively she smiles back. "I might not watch it."

Gesturing to her with his hand as though it was an extension of an epee Mycroft smiles "Touche." and Sarah tucks the flash drive in her purse.

A little settled by this big revelation Sarah sits back down between the men. "Okay, so that clears up that, but... I thought you were straight Greg."

Greg smiles gently at her and shakes his head gently. "No, in our generation the idea of every bloke who isn't singing musicals, or frankly a bit 'public school'" shooting Mycroft an apologetic look, "is obviously straight is ludicrous. I'm a hard working bloke who loves a pint and footy, yet I've always known I appreciate both sexes equally. A point that my ex-wife enjoyed when it was to her liking, and used against me at every opportunity till it destroyed my marriage."

"Not that I blame you for not knowing, just more a comment on society at large if you will."

Sarah picks up his hand in a gesture of support and gives it a good squeeze, then lets it go. "So, that leaves one more question." She scoots her chair back a touch and places her hands in front of her on her lap modestly, narrowly avoiding playing with her hair nervously.

"What exactly is it you think or hope is going on here?"

Mycroft and Greg reach for her hands as one, while Greg pipes up. "Well, last week when we met you at Angelo's it was clear to me Mycroft was quite taken with you from word one, and I have to admit your ability to turn his foil against him was amazing! So while you were off to the loo during dinner we agreed that I would ask you to coffee. We _hope_ you'd be willing to date us both... at the same time."

Sarah's eyes widen almost comically large. "I see."

Mycroft tightens his grip and pulls her hand toward himself, "Please, don't say no without taking us out for a spin! There is no one like you with your sensational mind, long beautiful ginger hair and lovely blue eyes. I have to say it, you enthrall me, which is _no_ easy task."

Under these words Sarah's cheeks have been steadily darkening.

"So..." pitches Greg, "what do you think? Give us a go then?"

"I must be insane... I think I'd be a fool not to."

The guys smile brightly at her, then each other as they all hug, and Mycroft raps sharply on the window four times. Moments later James comes back in from the alley, and the front door opens allowing the agents and what ever customers should happen by in.

The three of them sit there finishing off their cakes and chatting of less personal things.


	6. Doctor Watson For The Win

This time, John brings the coffee from Costa outright. Having fled the house, after securing an oath from Sherlock, that he'd not be in his pants when John got home, he was excited to hear how Sarah's date went. Excited to have something to distract him from that damnable dream the other night, John tosses back his espresso and starts in on the large black coffee, that he needs to counter the fact that he's not slept a wink since!

John glances at his watch, huh, Sarah is a bit late. Buzzing Evelin, he double checks his screen for info on his first appointment.

"Yes Dr. Watson?"

"Has Dr. Sawyer called in yet?"

"Yes, just a minute ago, she's stuck in traffic."

John gives the phone a quizzical look, "Right. Does she have a first appointment?"

"Yes Doctor, shall I ask if they would like to switch, or wait?"

"Evelin, that is exactly what I was thinking. I'm on the job, and we'll make up a bit of time, without hashing it up, so she isn't rushed when she gets in."

"Quite right Dr. Watson, I'll send the first round in a mo."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Sarah fiddles with her phone restlessly, as the saloon car Mycroft sent for her effortlessly sails through traffic. 'How did he know I slept in? John was always saying he watches people. Does that mean he watches me?' Her phone buzzes in her hand, displaying a text from the number Mycroft put in her phone the night before.

"I'm not watching you, but we kept you out rather late last night, so I thought you might have need of a car. MH"

Sarah smiles, and starts typing madly.

"But doesn't that just prove your watching me? How'd you know I was fretting other wise?" SS

"Funny, no I can't read you mind either. I just thought about what a pleb would be worrying about and then raised the bar to you, my dear. Your late, (my car has GPS, so I do know where you are) and bored in traffic. I'D be thinking about the car popping out of nowhere in your place, so of course you did as well. MH"

Sara shakes her head and puts the phone away as they arrive at the surgery, racing inside.

"So sorry Evelin, I know I'm over an hour late! How many do I have waiting for me?"

"None Dr. Sawyer, Dr. Watson has cleared the roster this morning."

Sarah blinks, "Right, is he free now?"

"Yes Doctor, he's working on paperwork at the moment."

"Thanks."

Sarah heads for John's office and enters after giving a cursory knock. "John, bless, I'm so sorry I'm late. I was up late thinking and I couldn't get to sleep till after 3AM!"

John looks up from his forms, and waggles his eyebrows at her a bit, "I've never heard it called 'thinking' before." He has a wide grin on his face, but it falls slightly at the look on Sarah's face. "You were thinking, weren't you?"

"John, I have had the weirdest date ever last night, and I mean ever! It was weirder than being kidnapped by a smuggling circus, who thought you were Sherlock Holmes!"

"Well now, that's disturbing. You sit down, I got us some coffee, I'll just go grab them." John disappears, briefly, out the door.

Coming back he hands her a large white coffee, "I am quite honestly a bit surprised that it's possible to top that night, after all, you almost died and you still don't hate me over it!"

Sarah fiddles with her cup liner, and John stops joking. "Sarah?"

"Yes John?" her eyes flicker to John, then back to the surface of her coffee.

"What happened last night, you are... obviously distressed."

Sarah sips at her drink, then places it on the counter to cool a bit. "It was a great date. For an hour and a half, Greg and I got to know each other, and it was great. I mean I think I could really fall for a guy like him, right?"

John remembers how she suggested he and Greg were very similar, a bit uncomfortably, and smiles encouragingly.

"Then suddenly Mycroft pops up and Anthea almost drowns the table in cakes."

John's expression turns a bit suspicious, "What was he doing there?"

Sarah laughs a bit hysterically, picking her cup up again, "They want to date me. Both of them, at the same bloody time." She fiddles with it a bit, and puts it down without drinking any. "And damn it if I don't almost want to do it!" Lunging over the edge of the desk, she grabs at John's hands to grip them. John squeaks a bit, as her hands grab hold very tightly, but otherwise stays completely still.

"How has this become my life, John?"

Coming out of his state of shock, John reverses her hold on his hands, trying to comfort her. "What did they say to get you so upset?"

"I don't think I'm upset, just a wee bit overwhelmed, that's ok isn't it?"

John stands and walks around to her side, still holding her hands, he urges her to stand up. "It is definitely ok," pulls her into a comforting hug, "at any time it is ok, understand?"

"John you are an amazing friend, but isn't it too much for me to ask you advice on my, possibly soon to be insane, romantic life? I mean Greg and Mycroft?"

Pulling back so he can look into her eyes John says "I think the important thing, Sarah, is if you think it is too much. If you trust these two to be appropriate, and trust them, to enter into this relationship, then that's enough for me. Now, you seem to want to talk about it. If you do, I'm listening."

She looks at him and slumps back into the chair, reaching for the coffee again. "Okay... I have one. What do you think is going on with Mycroft? Last night I saw a... a lot of vulnerability in him and I wonder if... do you think he was being honest?

John leans against the edge of the desk and observes her in a sherlock-ian (no! don't think about him!) way. "I think you believe him, as to whether or not he's being honest... I think the best is to trust Greg's opinion. And I can't believe I said that!"

A half grin flitters over Sarah's face, "You know John, that is the exact perfect thing to say, thank you." Then a calculating look takes it's place. "Is there something going on with you? You seem a bit... I'm not certain, but tense somehow."

John turns away, quickly to hide his cheeks burning, "Well... I can't really talk about it, it has to do with the dinner, so I better not."

Sarah leans forward to catch his expression and sees his cheeks. "There isn't a way you can elude to it without giving up anything important?"

He clears his throat and then sits, knowing she's seen his face already. "Well, Sherlock has to do something a bit... embarrassing and I'm having a hard time dealing with it. No big deal, just have to get used to..." there he brings himself up short.

"Used to? Come on John, just spit it out!"

His face turning crimson, the colour spreading down his neck and to the tips of his ears. "Well, he's not going to be wearing anywhere near as much as he normally does, and, erm, well... I..."

Sarah snickers loudly, "And you don't know where to look?" She covers her mouth with her hand, in an attempt to keep the giggles in, as all the colour drains out of John's face. Suddenly worried that he'd faint, she stops teasing. "Oh John, what is wrong?"

"I don't know Sarah, I'll tell you when I find out, ok?"

"Okay John, I'll hold you to that."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

John hands the landlord his £4 and takes a quick swig, so he doesn't spill as he walks over to a table by the door. His mobile buzzes in his other hand,

"Tell me you aren't staying out to avoid seeing me. Don't drink too much. SH"

John snorts and thumbs back a menu to message Lestrade.

"Come to the Arms, sooner rather than later. JW"

Placing the phone on the small high table next to his pint he wonders how long it will take to get someone other than Sherlock to text him.

He doesn't wait long.

"Buckingham Arms? Really John. MH"

John chuckles at his phone, even the buzz sounded annoyed!

"Well if your afraid of a pub Mycroft, I'll understand. I'll just come declare my new knowledge in the silent room of the Diogenes. JW"

Grinning like a loon John puts away his 'Young's Special' easy peasy.

Or was that getting under Mycroft Holmes' skin, as John notes a dark saloon pulling up outside, and Lestrade legging it across the street, with a grim look on his face. John smiles, as Lestrade gets into the saloon, 'Talking strategy I bet. Then I have time for a second pint!' John wanders over to the bar with his empty and gestures to the landlord for another. "Make it two mate, I'm expecting someone." And texts Sherlock while he waits for the pints to be pulled.

"Just sorting out your brother and Greg. Shouldn't be too long, and I won't drink more than four. JW"

A moment later the phone buzzes on the bar.

"So they have begun to court Sarah. What will you do? SH"

Badly suppressing a snort of amusement, John turns with the two pints to see Mycroft and Lestrade just inside the doorway.

John gives them a toothy grin and passes Lestrade a pint. "Didn't know what to order you Mycroft, didn't want to presume."

Mycroft hangs his umbrella over his forearm and leans against the bar. "No worries John, pint of Young's Bitters please." The two of them head over to the little windowsill table again; John just sits comfortably in his chair and drinks his pint. He is very aware that Lestrade is staring at him and then looking quickly over to Mycroft, only to stare at him again. Once Mycroft has his pint, and draws closer, he pulls out his mobile, activates an app, and lays it on the table. At John's inquisitive look he shrugs, "Signal dampener, so we aren't listened to."

And John cottons on, "And so we can't call anyone, or get calls. Clever."

Mycroft smiles, "No worries John, Sherlock knows how to hack it."

John looks at him shrewdly for a few seconds, then changes the topic. "Well then gents, should we get to the heart of the matter?"

Mycroft gives him a sullen look, and Lestrade clears his throat, "Yes John, let's get this done. What is your bloody problem?"

John smiles at Lestrade, and as the seconds go by it changes from a smile of common camaraderie to something cold and aggressive.

"Today one of the best friends I have in London came to me with a miraculous story of lust and courtship. Now this woman is very, very dear to me, and I wanted to let you know a few things, as well as ask you a couple."

Greg, clearly taking control of the conversation; while Mycroft hid behind his pint of bitters; turns his body fully towards John. "What do you want to know?"

"Are you really involved with Mycroft? Why? Have you progressed to sex? Have you both thought about what could happen if all this blows up in your faces?"

Lestrade closes his eyes and stretches his eyebrows up and down in surprise before opening his eyes again to glare at John. "That's quite the list, and I'm not sure it's all your business."

John 'tisks' in irritation, "Your talking about the sex question, for crying out loud Greg! If you take a mostly straight man, and negligently sexual man and plunk them together, why do you think it would be a good idea to complicate things with a third person if you haven't 'tried out all the gears'? It's like a couple having a baby to save the marriage. It's a disaster waiting to happen. That's why I want to know, because that disaster is happening to my friend."

Lestrade nods once then. "Yes I'm dating Mycroft Holmes, and I do it because he's a sexy fucker who makes me act like a 16 year old in love. And yes, 16 year olds in love shag when ever they can!"

Mycroft turns a bit away, a bit of a blush staining his cheeks, and Lestrade keeps on talking. "Yes we did talk about it. We talked about it in an academic way before it occurred to us last week that Sarah would be perfect, and after that we went over everything with a fine tooth comb before deciding on our plan."

John narrows his eyes, "How is that possible you asked her that night?"

"Yes," Lestrade smiles, "I made the date with high hopes, but if Myc and I hadn't gotten anywhere thinking it through, I'd have gone on the date alone and called it off with her a while later."

"Then what are you going to do if it implodes?"

Much to John's surprise it's Mycroft who responds, his face more expressive than John 's ever seen it. "No John, it can't!" His eyes quickly reflect anguish, surprise and awe, "She is so amazing, that clever whit she has captivates me. I was amazed to meet Gregory, and feel he has no disgust for my physical form. I never thought I could do it again. I will move heaven and earth to make sure this works."

John, quietly reals from the level of emotion, on the face of the man who coined the phrase, 'caring is not an advantage.' "Then I will take your word on that. See that the lady has nothing to want for. Because if she does I'll be coming for you both." John takes a long draught from his pint, His eyes as cold and distant as his flatmates usually are. Mycroft gets a suddenly sly look on his face. "Well John, if that's business over, you had best get home to 'practice' hmm?"

John chokes on his beer and Lestrade is pounding him on the back for a few minutes before he recovers. "You bastard Mycroft, what did you have to do with the costumes?"

The sly look blooms into a shameless grin, "Me? I had nothing to do with it, I just gave the taylor some historical documents that might have been helpful, oh, and I passed that stuff off to Gerrard's as well."

John's face colours, then pales drastically. "Mycroft... Oh god, you will be the death of me."

"That'll teach you to threaten me over my own club." Mycroft bites back, with more venom than he meant to allow. Lestrade looks confused, but John's expression clears and returns to his normal, sympathetic, countenance.

"Mycroft, I would never forcibly expose someone's personal life to the public. I only worded that text, that way, to ensure you came here tonight, so we could discuss this. Now," draining his pint, "you two be good to Sarah, and I should get home so Sherlock can do his bloody practicing. Don't you dare explain that to anyone till after the dinner."

With that and a casual salute to Lestrade and the land lord, John heads out to hail a taxi. In the cab, he pulls out his phone to text Sherlock.

"On my way home, I know something you don't know, and I'm ok to practice. Only had two pints. JW"

The response is immediate,

"Good. I'll be changed and waiting. SH"

'Good god,' John thinks to himself, 'if anyone saw text that they'd...' He forcibly stops himself from following that train of thought. Very shallow shoals those, very shallow indeed!

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	7. Practice Makes Uhm Perfect?

Here we go, the long awaited look into Sherlock's point of view! There is sexual situations, and imagined (damn it!) sexual acts. M/M CHAPTER! BE ADVISED.

I've been a bit slow figuring out this website's upload system, so this is the first time I've added the disclaimer. Please consider it retroactive till I can get the other chapters fixed!

Chapter 7: Practice Makes... Uhm Perfect?

Sherlock slowly stands up from the floor, John had gone up to his room a few minutes ago, and Sherlock was feeling a bit sore from his long limbs being folded up so tightly. 'A shower maybe, then a bit of sleep.' Flicking off the light, he heads for the shower.

Standing under the hot water, Sherlock subtly stretches the long muscles in his body, one at a time. His arms were stretching up over his head when he heard an odd sound, climbing out of the shower he grabs a towel. Silently he creeps down the hallway to the stairwell and listens, it's coming from upstairs. Looking down to make sure the door at the entrance is shut, he slowly glides up towards John's room.

Only three steps onto the flight of stairs, Sherlock hears the sound again. He struggles to identify it, had John walked into the leg of the bed after taking off his shoes? The tone is too obscured, by the rushing sound of the water he had left on, to identify. Sherlock flows silently up a dozen more steps, almost at the top now he can hear a quieter sound that was covered by the water. It's sort of crackly squishy sound, he's pretty sure he's never heard that sound before.

A sinking in his stomach makes Sherlock wonder if this is perhaps too private to see. Maybe he should just head back to his shower and forget this, clearly there was no struggle (too little noise), clearly no one other than him and John is in the flat (downstairs door shut tight, no sign of forced entry). He looks at his own feet in shock as they continue up the stairs, 'But I want to go _down_ the stairs!' His head turns without his consent and through the gap of the door he can see John.

Three things are clear to Sherlock immediately, one, the first sound, the loud one, was John, but _not_ an expression of pain, second, the other sound was the slick sound of flesh slipping against flesh, and third, that this was definitely very personal.

John lay on top of his covers, completely bare, arched back against his pillows one hand caressing his chest as his other is moving restlessly in his lap. In that flash of information, the information burns itself, immutably, into his mind, Sherlock knows forever the sound of John's moans, he knows John likes to tease himself, he knows what John looks like as he is coming undone, Sherlock _knows_ it, and yet he shouldn't. He hasn't been granted this, he's taken it.

The horror of what he's done finally catching up to him, he slides down the stairs without a sound and numbly walks back to the bathroom and into his shower.

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When Sherlock's finally trying to get a bit of rest, a couple days later, that immutable part of his brain comes back to haunt him. In his minds eye he's still on the stairs when John moans and writhes prettily through coming all over himself. He's still there when John opens his eyes, half sits up, and leans back suggestively catching him in his gaze.

"Well Sherlock, are you going to sit on the steps all night, or are you going to get in here like my good Ikbal?" Sherlock's face radiates his shame at being caught, as he stands and walks into John's room. As he stands he notes the lack of his towel, in fact he's wearing an item from his costume for the dinner. The burning sensation spreads to his ears, as he _feels_ the sensation of raw silk against his cock and balls, but nothing save the velvet ribbons up around his hips. 'What _use_ is this thing anyways? A pouch? _really_!' He mentally rolls his eyes, as he carefully settles to his knees beside the bed, eyes cast down, hands gently resting on the edge of the bed.

A moment later, John stretches his limbs out to their full extent. Then he murmurs in a pleased tone under his breath. "Very pretty Sherlock, crawl up onto the foot of the bed, I have a chore for you."

Sherlock, without raising his gaze, slips up the edge of the bed and comes to rest respectfully beside John's foot. He can feel John's eyes traveling over his body, and the heat and intensity that's gathering in the room. His own eyes are drawn to the monolith that is John's cock, it is still aiming up at John's face, even though the evidence of his recent emissions are all over John's stomach and chest. Sherlock's brain, even in this 'dream', tries to fight the oddness of that organ not being flaccid, but it can not win. John's cock is mesmerizing, even as he admires it, it twitches with every exhale of Sherlock's breath. It's a wonderful thing, '_very_ monolithic!' and Sherlock is desperate to touch it.

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With a jolt Sherlock opens his eyes and he is lying in his bed in his usual bed clothes. His eyes widen in shock as he realises for the first time in many years he's physically aroused. He stares up into nothingness for exactly three seconds before willfully closing his eyes and going back into his mind palace looking for that immutable part of his mind that was spinning this story for him.

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With a salacious grin John gestures to his crotch. The command, "Get to work Sherlock" comes out with a growl. Sherlock shudders, as he reaches out to grasp John's cock at the base. It is beautiful, arching upwards away from him, the length not over shadowing the girth, John's foreskin retracted away from the sensitive head which glistens with either left over ejaculate or new emissions, Sherlock can't tell, and doesn't care. He _must_ taste it.

With much care, he gently dabs at the head with the flat of his tongue. John murmurs again, an encouraging sound, feeling bolder, Sherlock runs his tongue all over the head of John's cock, tasting it all over. It seems at first bitter to him, then salty and oddly sweet somehow. Sherlock contemplates his next action, but then just sinks over John's cock, wrenching a low moan from the man. About halfway down the head hits the back of Sherlocks throat and it spasms, but before he can retract, John's hands are deep in his curls holding him still. "St..stay ri...ri...right.t.t..t, oh!...good lord, right there. It'll pass, a...and you'll get used to is quicker this way." Sherlock instinctively pulls against the obstruction in this mouth, but John's hands hold him firmly in place, and the sensation passes.

"That was well done Sherlock, beautiful mouth on you." Sherlock's face flushes again with the praise. "The way the back of your throat fluttered against the tip of me there, oh that was bliss!" His hands still buried in those luxuriant curls he holds Sherlocks pale sea foam eyes with his midnight blues. Very slowly watching Sherlocks reaction, John pulls out and glides back in, each time shifting just a slight bit forward. After a few minutes, as Sherlock's throat spasms again weakly, and John keeps moving slowly, inexorably, in and out, John smiles as the spasms begin to settle down.

Starting to fight a bit now, Sherlock feels like he's going to retch, pleading with his eyes for John to let him go, the helplessness floods over him. John just smiles down at him and pulls Sherlock _further_ onto his cock. Now there's a thread of panic in those pale stormy eyes as he chokes on the intrusion. "It's alright Sherlock, hold on," driving in deeper and quicker, "hold on, you can do it. Your fucking brilliant, you can do this, so beautifully," stills for a moment all the way in, as Sherlock's ability to breathe is cut off completely. "Good god! the feeling of your throat trying to expel me is amazing, Sherlock you take cock like a fucking star! Hold on now, I'm going to back out slowly." Closing his eyes for a moment, John grinds himself against Sherlock's face in unfaltering lust. "When I get far enough out, breathe in, as long, and slow as you can. Your brain will want you to breathe in _and_ out, try to resist it, cause the high is _worth_ it! Just in; as long as you can!"

Sherlock barely hears the orders, his brain has descended into a fog of low grade panic. But as John withdraws that _python_! from his throat, the meaning is suddenly startlingly clear, so he does as commanded. The room swims, his perceptions telling him the world is on fire, a delightful wonderful fire of sweet sensations, and just as he finishes inhaling his mouth is suddenly full of more of that wonderful bitter sweet salt.

Sherlock collapses to the side swallowing, his chest heaving as his oxygen starved brain perceives everything spinning around him.

John's voice, rough and velvety, against his ear, "Oh dear, you are a keeper, such a mouth, and everything is new to you. God, what a feeling it was breaking you in, you want more don't you? No need to answer Ikbal, I know." With his words, John's neat hand brushes against Sherlocks engorged cock, still in it's raw silk pouch.

Sherlock throws his head back and his voice, broken by the abuse, cracks as he cries out at full volume and he comes for the first time under another's hands.

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With a start Sherlock sits bolt upright, with a grimness he notes his pants need changing. A moment later there's a knock at his bedroom door.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

His eyes widen comically, '_John_! Oh _god_! How can I look at him again?' Sherlock swallows a couple times to get his dry throat to work.

"Yes John, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"Erm, you screamed a few minutes ago. Sounded like you were being stuck with a dagger!"

Grasping at proverbial straws, Sherlock casts his eyes about. "I must have called out half in my sleep, I... fell off the bed while I was sleeping. I must have dreamt I was falling again." Silence greets his comment, as he flintches at mentioning THAT, then:

"Right, well try to get some more sleep, it's only," pause as John assumably looks at his watch, "half three, good lord! Good night Sherlock."

Half voice, "Goodnight John." If there was one thing Sherlock knew, as he looked about for a change of pants, he _wasn't_ going to be able to sleep more tonight!

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'Ikbal' refers to a rank in an Ottoman Empire Sultan's Harem. The concubine with whom the Sultan shared his bed became a member of the dynasty and rose in rank to attain the status Ikbal (the Favourite).

So in John's Harem Sherlock has risen in rank above the others indicating preference.

And yes I know, I know, Harems didn't have men in them unless they are eunuchs (castrated). So please ignore that fact.

And in case someone is irritated that I chose to do 'Arabian Nights' as the theme, forgive me. I had this box set sitting on my bedroom shelf for 5 years till I put in a car boot sale. It just was RIGHT somehow that Mrs Taylor would have kept her copy!


	8. Awkward Bits & Pieces

Chapter 8: Awkward Bits & Pieces

Sherlock was sitting at the table checking up on the growth rate of a mold spore he was growing in a left over take away container when John came down from his room.

"Wow Sherlock,' looking around at the upheaval in the kitchen, "how long have you been up?"

Putting the old tika messala container down Sherlock shrugs one shoulder. "I didn't really sleep after I fell out of bed."

Concern clouds John's features, "Good lord! That must have been quite the dream. I have to admit I didn't sleep too well with the reminder fresh in my mind!" John busies himself getting toast and jam made for them both when Sherlock's hands reach over his own and take the knife and jam away from him. "Sherlock?"

Trying to sound indifferent, and only managing gruff, Sherlock takes over the toast making. "It'll be my job to wait on you, at the dinner, John. Make us some tea then go sit, I'll bring you the rest."

John shaking his head a bit and hinging his jaw shut again, makes tea and goes and sits down in his chair. Moments later Sherlock comes in with his round tray, on which are two plates. Bending at the waist he offers, over John's left shoulder, one of the plates. Bemused John takes the proffered plate and watches with some amazement as Sherlock manages to neatly and smoothly fold up on the carpet beside his feet with his own plate. John finds himself thinking, with amazement, that the lines of Sherlock's clothes were distracting, and then feels warmth creeping up his cheeks as his traitorous brain whispers "_so many_ things." in Sherlock's voice to him again. Swallowing thickly John puts his plate on his side table and sips at his tea in a desperate attempt to distract himself.

Sherlock, for his part, was quietly trying to hold his brain in check. As soon as John appeared in the doorway, his body stiffened and he was desperate for distraction. So he did the first thing that came to mind, he rushed John out of the room and made his toast for him. He was so distracted he even made and _ate _toast for himself. He's very glad he's kneeling on the ground facing away from John, at least he didn't have to worry about John noticing any of the reactions he was aware of in himself. Sherlock drifts around in his mind palace trying to avoid thinking about _that_ immutable part of his mind, rapidly becoming a whole wing as he tries to contain it and failing to do so. It's worrying, how it invades every thought.

Or is it only that everything in his life has to do with John and _now_... every thought leads back to John's voice groaning out, "oh that was bliss." And his ears start to burn.

John's voice floats down from above and behind him, "Sherlock, are you ok?"

Sherlock throws a look up over his shoulder at John, "I'm fine. I'm going to go get my swimming costume on. I'll be right back."

And with that he makes his escape to his bedroom, while John stares after him in confusion.

Once in his room Sherlock changes his mind. "I'll be a few minutes John, I'm going to take a shower before we get started." With that he disappears into a very long cold shower.

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Sarah sits at her desk glances at her phone, indecision wracking her, she picks up the phone to text Greg.

"I'd like to talk to you alone tonight, could you come over for half an hour, please. I won't ask you not to tell Mycroft, but I do need to talk to you alone. SS"

A few moments later her phone buzzes.

"I'm allowed to talk to him about it afterwards? GL"

"Of course. SS"

Without hesitation she hits the send button. And the response is quick,

"What time. GL"

Sarah smiles to herself,

"8PM. SS"

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Promptly at eight the bell at Sarah's house rings, and she rushes to open the door. Greg Lestrade stands there smiling in jeans, a white button down, and a worn brown leather jacket.

Sarah smooths her hands down over her hips, trying to smooth the edge of her shirt down over her trousers and smiles. "I'm so glad you decided to come talk to me. I was worried about how it would sound, but I really wanted to have this conversation alone, as it were."

"No worries," he responds, "we are trying a rather daunting relationship, it's not surprising you wanted a bit more one on one time."

Sarah nods at that and leads Greg into the living room gesturing for him to sit on the sofa. "A-ha!" Greg exclaims, "the infamous sofa John talked of, it IS as comfortable as he said." Sarah laughs as she turns into the kitchen area, "Did you talk about my sofa a lot?"

"No," Greg hedges, "it was more about pointing out his unwillingness to get physical with any of his girlfriends. Which was followed by John making a lot of excuses."

Sarah pulls down a couple lowball glasses and starts making gilbalters for them both. "You all talked about that did you? Did Sherlock weigh in on these talks?"

Greg chuckles, "Sometimes, but he usually ignores the common man talking, if you know what I mean." He reaches up as Sarah hands him his coffee, and she grins with a jaunty look, "Boy do I ever. When I was dating John I was regarded with suspicion and distain. Now he's ALMOST polite to me"

"But my ex's love life is not what I want to talk about tonight!" Sarah sits down near Greg with her own coffee and gets comfortable.

Greg looks closely at her attire, trying to decide her intent, she's wearing her work clothes he suspects, dark trousers, a long sleeved button down, and little make up or jewelry. Actually Greg is sure she's wearing less jewelry than normal, if last week was as impromptu due for her as for everyone else, she wearing less now. So clearly she's gotten comfy, so this isn't to lure him into activity without Myc. Having realised this his posture relaxes a fraction.

"So what _are_ we here to talk about?"

Sarah looks at him for a moment in silence, then, "I want to talk about Mycroft. About whether this is a wise idea for him or not."

Greg feels a bit irritated at her questioning his intent with this relationship, "What are you talking about, I'm very concerned with how this works out for Myc."

Sarah seeing things are flagging a bit grabs up Greg's hand and puts it on her knee. "No, no, I don't mean specifically your bad for him, or I'm good for him. I just wonder..."

Trailing off for a moment she looks into her cup for inspiration, and taking a deep breath she appears to have found it. "Greg, as a cop your trained to see all kind of abuse with very little evidence. Well so am I, and I see a lot of evidence in Mycroft's behaviour. At the best he was a severely neglected child, allowed to go wild and then just hemmed in by manners, but no other social norms. At worst he has undiagnosed Aspberger's syndrome and or was abused as a child. With me so far?"

Trying hard not to get upset by the direction of conversation Greg nods, "Yes."

Sarah nods, "Well then what can we do for him? There has to be some way we can work together to help him get over this stuff."

Greg looks deep into Sarah Sawyer's eyes searching for some hidden part that isn't invested in what she was saying. She seemed to mean exactly what she said, and inside Greg fell for her a bit, and his heart broke a tiny bit more for Myc. "I think our jobs are to show him love. That he can be loved. That he is sexy, and deserves love. I know that's a bit ahead of the ball for you, but as were drafting a play book, I think that's where we need to be going."

Sarah smiles again! "And how do you think we should do that? Turning sideways on the sofa propping his elbow up on the back Greg happily starts planning how exactly the two of them would prove Myc was amazing for another two hours. Myc was going to be livid he was taking so long.

Having _just_ closed the door behind Greg, Sarah purposefully strides over to her desk and retrieves the flash drive from the top drawer. Twirling the it over her fingers she meanders over to the TV in the sitting room. Not letting herself think about it too much she pops the drive into the TV, and then places the remote on her side table. Making a detour to the kitchen and the bedroom, Sarah collects items she thinks she needs. She changes into a nightgown, grabs a bottle of wine and settles down with her bounty in the living room.

Knowing she wouldn't have the guts to 'press play' right away, Sarah switched to the Radio 2 feed through the TV and pours herself a glass of wine and settles back to relax and work up her courage! She thinks about her talk with Greg, and how well it went. Sarah knows how much a person's confidence can suffer, when they have an altered self image, and she really wants to help Greg to show Mycroft that he isn't what he thinks he is.

Finished her wine she takes a big breath and organizes the items she brought with her, and pulls the blanket off the back of the sofa and drapes it over her lap to keep her legs warm.

'Okay, this is it.' Sarah thinks to herself as she pours another glass of wine. 'After this I'll know for sure if I find these men desirable.' Taking a hefty drink she shifts around getting comfortable on her sofa, with her feet up and tucked under and to the side of her. 'Is this an unfair advantage?' Finishing her glass and queueing up the TV with the remote, she thinks with finality. 'Probably not, I'll probably give _them_ the advantage, me blushing every time I look at them for the _rest of my life!'_

She selects 'play'.

Mycroft is the first through the door, spots the camera immediately, quickly followed by Greg, who turns, closes the blinds, and locks the door. His eyes flicker up to the camera, he nods slightly and turns to Mycroft.

Who is looking at him with a slightly conflicted expression. "Well Detective Inspector, what do you think we are doing in here."

Greg crowds Mycroft up against the edge of the table, not touching him, just getting so far into his personal space that Mycroft has no where to go. Greg watches the lust dancing with the irritation in Mycroft's eyes, "To be honest I'd really like to bend you over that table and have at you, but I think that might be a bit much."

The aristocrat disappears from the room in a flash as fire-y lust transforms Mycroft's baring. With a low drawn out groan he drops his shoulders, tilts his head back and to the side, an open invitation if ever Greg saw one. Mycroft's hands clutch at the front of Greg's jacket, while Greg's hands seise his shoulders possessively and he takes Mycroft up on his offer.

Bringing his hand around to lie flat on Mycroft's chest, Greg twists his fingers 'round to point downwards, "May I, time is not a luxury we possess this time." Mycroft thinks about the fact that this means it's going to happen again for less than a second, before covering Greg's hand with his own and dragging them both down his body to rest over the shape of his cock in his trousers.

"I'd be happy to hurry things along, if your happy to help Gregory."

Greg's eyes widen, and the continuous rumble that was escaping him sticks on a groan at the use of his first name. Helpless against the buffet of hormones he lets his knees buckle, and he slides down Mycroft's body to rest at his feet.

Mycroft's expression takes on a wanton, bestial cast as he observes Greg's dark eyes looking up at him. The moment stretches out as they gaze at one another, almost like they are trapped at the precipice of something, but both unsure exactly what. Then it changes, Greg slowly begins unfastening Mycroft's trousers, but it's his eyes that have the other man frozen. There is something in them that hints, beckons to Mycroft, something, somehow... warm. Mycroft shakes his head, surely he's imagining it, those eyes are swimming in lust, and that is all.

As Greg's hand slips into his pants, Mycroft's brain fires off a last thought in sheer shock, 'He's such a fit bloke, how is it he is doing this for me?' And then his focus narrows to lips.

Greg is lost in those dark blue eyes, and he wants to kick himself, a tiny bit of reciprocated attention and he's throwing his heart into it already! Trying to get a rein on his emotions he quickly opens Mycroft's trousers and goes after his prize.

Mycroft's skin is very pale, with random freckles a testament to a few nude sunbathing sessions. His cock stands away from his body straining as though it wants to get to Greg's mouth as badly as Greg wants to put it there. Smirking to himself he runs his lips down the underside of it around to Mycroft's abdomen and noses his way across to a hipbone, sliding his hands under the clothing Greg grips the back of Mycroft's hipbones and drags his teeth and tongue over the bone jutting out against the skin.

Mycroft's breath stutters, and he sways away and then into the pressure on his hips. Moaning obscenely he reaches one hand back to brace on the table and the other grabs onto the collar of Greg's jacket, which he uses to pull Greg closer.

Greg's eyebrows flicker up for a second, then with a mumbled "As you command." he takes Mycroft into his mouth. He relishes the painful stretch of his jaw as the thickness - god so _thick_ - fills him, and almost instantly Greg starts drooling from the taste, the lavender and lemongrass of Mycroft's personal hygiene rituals, underlaid by a clove-y musk. He lets the saliva slick everything, running down his chin to Mycroft's balls. Lightly Greg presses his lips to the flesh in his mouth, letting his teeth catch now and again, but not enough to do anything other than tease.

Mycroft utters an angry hiss and moves his hands to grip Greg's hair painfully tight, forcing a groan of pleasure from Greg, to vibrate wonderfully along Mycroft's cock. Looking behind himself he turns a tiny bit (unknowingly giving the camera a slightly better angle) and collapses back into a chair.

Greg for his part can not let go with Mycroft's hands holding on to him, but he retaliates by gripping Mycroft's thighs and wrenching him to the edge of the seat and his knees, as far apart as they can go, slotting himself in there. Taking a deep breath Greg relaxes his neck as much as he can, nonverbally telling Mycroft he's driving now.

Mycroft switches to a growl and starts _driving_ his cock into Greg. Mycroft watches with some surprise as a calm peaceful expression comes over Greg's face, while he pistons in and out of that jaw that has to be aching by now.

Greg's eyes roll up into his head at the bliss of his mouth being used. Letting go of the other man's trouser legs for a moment he quickly fumbles open his own trousers, and frees his ignored member. Grabbing it in a tight grip he rhythmically squeezes the foreskin up and down the head, since he doesn't have enough lubrication for full on stroking at hand.

Moaning low and slowly, Greg reaches for Mycroft's perineal area with his other hand, applying pressure up and back in cyclical motions. At this Mycroft throws his head back and barks out a shout of pleasure as he instantly comes. Greg whimpers as Mycroft clutches him close and his nose is buried in crisp gingery pubic hair. Helplessly he follows Mycroft's example as he barely pulls in a lungful or two of heavy musky spicy air, making the world swim.

Mycroft slowly pries his hands open and releases Greg's hair, surprised to find a few strands remain between his fingers, and stuck under the edge of his ring. He moans as he leans back into the chair he's sat upon, and looks down at the attractive, debauched, D.I. "My god that was wicked of us wasn't it? You Gregory are a wonder, how did that stupid woman you married loose sight of your unbelievable skill in sex!"

Greg snorts, rummaging in his pockets for a handkerchief to clean himself up with. "That 'wonderful' performance is exactly why we broke up. My lovely wife realised my talents are more toward blow jobs, and that I never came with minimal stimulation performing oral on her." He shrugs one shoulder tucking himself away and then moving to gently close Mycroft's trousers up. He looks up into Mycroft's glittering dark blue eyes, and smiles his winning grin, "I never had the guts to tell her that it's the suffocating nature of having a cock down my throat that gets me off not that I desire the man more."

Shaking his head bemusedly, Mycroft grins back at Greg, "Her loss then. Do I get to keep you?"

Greg collapses back against the table leg giggling. "If you'd like to, but we better get out of here before someone tries to use this room!"

With that they get themselves sorted out and leave, the recording stops shortly after that.

Sarah feels like she hasn't moved in forever, her hands are bunched up in the blanket and her cheeks are burning. 'Good god, I'm doomed! I'm going to blush when I _text them_!' With shaking hands she tidies up a bit and then heads to bed.


	9. The Lines Begin To Blur

Chapter 9: The Lines Begin To Blur

John stares blindly at his medical journal, the article on subdural hygroma laughing at him _again_, but that's not the pressing thought in his mind. No, _that_ would be the fact that tonight Sherlock has attained his goal for the dinner - currently he's kneeling _quietly, _hands limply on his upper thighs, back straight, eyes cast down _demurely_ away from John - on the floor. _On the floor_ beside John's feet, in just his _swimming costume_! 'I wonder if he was ever a diver,' John thinks unassumingly, 'makes sense with his hight, and long lean muscles.'

Thankful to be close to the end of this crazy ride, called 'practicing', he shifts a bit in his chair to reach for his tea. Looking down at Sherlock's back while sipping his hot tea, John smiles a bit. His flatmate, is a force of nature, that's for sure! A tall imposing individual with his muscles covered in all that pale creamy skin, not to mention all that dark curly hair and piercing eyes...

A shiver of excitement trickles down John's spine as he thinks about the upcoming dinner with excitement. '_Or,_' his mutinous mind supplies, 'could it be your thinking about how _dead sexy_ Sherlock is going to be in his costume.' John thinks to himself idly while going to drink his tea that's gone cold.

'Wait a minute, what was _that?'_ John pauses mid-swallow to backtrack, 'did I just think that Sherlock is _sexy?' _A feeling of horror seeps into his gut, 'I reject the idea that I'm attracted to Sherlock - then why do I want to bend him over the work table, _yank_ down that speedo and just _ram_ my cock into him?' A low moan is warring it's way out of his throat as the image in his mind takes on a life of it's own.

Sherlock smiles inwardly at their success, not only is John no longer so awkward with the situation, but Sherlock has actually managed kneeling here in a fairly comfortable position for quite some time, and his brain isn't tying him in knots from boredom: yes, he has a stack of 'cheat sheets' on the chair at the end of their work table, but he hasn't looked at even one tonight. No doubt about it, this is the longest time they've managed to sit there without the boredom getting to him; he's about to congratulate John when he feels the man behind him lock up, head to foot.

Turning his upper body, his mouth already open to reprimand John for letting what ever it is that's bothering him _ruin_ their practice, he's stopped cold, as only a creak escapes, Sherlock takes in the scene before his eyes - he deductions begin to unfold in his mind.

The medical journal lies forgotten in John's hand, propped against the arm of the chair, he's leaning forward a bit in his chair, his breathing is erratic and he's staring vacantly at the work table he and Sherlock use for their desk. Sherlock tilts his head a bit concentrating. There is a flush to John's face that has traveled down his neck, so this has built slowly, his expression has a cast of horror, his pupils are dilating as the horror is displaced.. by...oh.

John looses the battle with the moan, choking it out lowly.

Sherlock's eyebrows disappear behind his fringe, suddenly it's very obvious. The horror is displaced by lust, John is in the grip of some sexual phantasy that involves their work table. Shaking his head, Sherlock goes back to his deductions, and scans John again. He can now see a fine film of sweat on John's forehead and upper lip, his fingers have slid slightly from their position on the journal - indicating sweaty palms as well - his gaze tracking downward, Sherlock notices John is holding his thighs apart, as far as he can in his chair. Why?

Eyes widening in shock, Sherlock realises John is making room for his (*python* his brain adds helpfully) erection!

Heat rushes up Sherlock's backbone as he realises that this is not a situation he wants to be in again - an observer of John's lust for some unknown woman - John moans again, and Sherlock comprehends quickly that he has to _get out _of this room, before that immutable part of his brain decides it wants more information.

Dismayed, Sherlock notes his belly is tingling and the heat traveling his backbone has pooled in his groin with intent. Stifling his own moan, he leaps to his feet and shuffles to the bathroom for another _cold_ shower.

John is jolted out of his motionless revery by the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut and the shower switching on. With a sigh he opens his trousers and stares down at his erection angrily. "I didn't tell you you could lust after Sherlock you idiot!"

Throwing the magazine down, John holds up his trousers with one hand and heads to his room to 'deal' with his problem.


	10. Dinner For Three

Okay guys! I was trying to finish this chapter so I could post the whole shebang, but Good LORD! Over 4,100 words I realised it wasn't going to happen! So. Here's the first half of the night, everything till sleep comes. As soon as I finish it I'll post the other part.

Same as always, not mine, SO not mine. And this chapter depicts the creation of a functioning threesome, so if the idea of a couple fit blokes inviting in a hot lady squicks you, go elsewhere to read. Cause somehow, this little side plot has TAKEN OVER my story! I'll get back to the Johnlock soon I promise!

Chapter 10: Dinner For Three

Greg wanders around his living room fretting, moving a pillow and then two seconds later moving it back. He has to admit, the cleaners Myc paid to go over the place that day did a great job. The place looked cleaner and more put together than he thinks it's ever been! 'I know it's been a while...' he thinks to himself, 'But this place has _never _ looked this good!' Trying desperately to stop fidgeting Greg shoots his cuffs again making sure his soft charcoal button down looks good. The shirt, which is a silvery charcoal, is set off by the darker trousers and his own silver hair. 'Maybe I should have gotten my hair cut...'

Further panic is cut short by his door buzzer going off. Hauling in a huge breath to quash his nerves, 'Bloody hell, I haven't been this nervous since the ex's emergancy cisarian!' Greg walks quickly to the door and opens it to find Sarah and Myc standing there.

Sarah looks stunning, as is evident from the looks Myc is giving her! Her hair is swept up into a french twist, studded with pinky-peach pearls. She's wearing a pale peach silk dress. It's a sleek number with an empire waist line, the bodice is ruched horizontally, with a square neckline, and studded with crystals. All of that cloaked in a knee length caramel mac and finished off with knee high worn black boots. Stunning.

Myc also looks amazing, but Greg is used to that! Once again Greg is thankful to that bespoke taylor of Myc's, because the only time Myc looks better than in those suits of his, is, well, never mind. The clean lines of his pinstripe suit, ivory on grey, an ivory silk shirt and butter yellow tie, with of course his taupe trench and ubiquitous umbrella, leave Greg unsure which of them is more... well, edible, really. Not to mention that he feels considerably under dressed now!

"Sarah, my you look lovely this evening, and your handsome as always Myc."

"Thank you Greg." smiling devilishly she pulls a generous bouquet out from behind her back. "I thought why the heck not, we're coming to your house, and just by being here we're upsetting ALL the societal rules anyways. So, a big tough, pint & footy loving bloke like you can DEAL with getting flowers on a date from a woman!"

Greg snickers and leans in to thank her with a kiss. "Thank you very much, I'll just get these in water, shall I? Myc, care to deal with coats and show the lady in?"

Mycroft leans towards Greg, snags a kiss, and passes him the wine he brought, as he walks by. "Of course Gregory. Sarah? May I take your coat?"

'Please." Setting down her purse, she lets Mycroft unwrap her... Sarah blushes a bit and glares at the coffee table for a moment trying to get herself under control again.

"Oh-ho, Miss Sawyer! Did we do some late night watching recently?"

Sarah gives Mycroft a mock glare, her blush trebling, just as Greg wanders back in with his flowers in a vase. "There, they are lovel...y... Sarah?"

Her knees no longer willing to keep her up Sarah slips down to rest on the arm of the sofa. Without any hope of it working, she hides behind her hand for a moment, while Greg places the flowers on the table, she had been glaring at a moment ago. Sarah winds her courage up.

"Right! Lets get this out so we can enjoy our evening without the giant 'elephant in the room', looming over us." She straightens in her seat and looks up at them commandingly, enough so, that Greg comes to sit, below, and to the side of her, on the sofa. Mycroft remains standing in front of her, an amused expression, actually, managing to find it's way onto his face.

"I watched the flash drive... possibly more than once, and yes it was hot, bloody hot! I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to talk to you let alone be in a room with you without making demands! I'm so confused. It's like I feel a part of _this_ already." she looks away with a moue of distaste on her face. "Like I can make demands, and I can't. It's a bit odd."

Mycroft, now quite serious, urges her to sit properly, on the far side of Greg, while he sits on the table facing her. Focusing that Holmesian eye for details he softly asks "What kind of demands - Dear Lady - have come to mind?"

Hiding in both her hands now, tips of her ears bright red, Sarah screws up the courage to talk again. "Things no 'Lady' would consider before getting to know the man, let alone _men,_ an awful lot better! I refuse," both men watch with interest as the blush travels down to her decolletee, "to let hormones and curiosity get the better of me! So when is dinner?"

Seeing a grab for conversation change, Mycroft takes pity on Sarah, "Are those boots Prada?"

Greg shaking his head at the rapid change in topic, and wanders off back to the kitchen. Sarah smiles at Mycroft, "Yes. These are my 'these boots are made for walkin'/getting over you' boots. I bought them on a depressed and panicky day."

Mycroft watches her flick a look after Greg, then look to him, and finally down at the boots themselves. Thinking about when those boots came out and when they'd be at a price Sarah could imagine buying them on a whim, he matches that up to the timeline of his dear brother and his blogger...

"Did you get them before you broke up with John, or after?"

Sarah looks at him for a few minutes her eyes growing round and her pupils dilating. "The weekend before," Greg comes in with glasses for the wine, and stops short at the tense scene in front of him. "I wasn't sure if he was cheating on me or not. So I got them, just in case I needed to 'walk all over him'. But John assured me he wasn't _thinking_ of anyone else, he was just too busy trying to keep _your brother_ on a even keel."

She pulls away a bit and turns to look at Greg, while Mycroft looks at the boots in question. As though lost in their beauty his right hand falls to gently feather his finger tips over the delicate shape of Sarah's ankle.

A questioning sound curls out of her, as Mycroft's fingers slip around to grip her foot over her arch solidly. "Sorry," Mycroft pulls away completely rising from the coffee table and striding to Greg's sideboard he unerringly produces the wine bottle opener. "Normally, I'm very capable at keeping things at a distance. I apologise if my familial behaviour offends you."

Sarah catches Greg's eye, as Mycroft is fussing the foil off the, slightly dusty, bottle of wine. He nods minutely; she stands slowly and walks over to Mycroft. Moving cautiously into his field of vision she gently smiles and places her hand engagingly on his forearm.

"I'll borrow a phrase from John now. 'It's all fine' Mycroft. If we aren't going to get hung up in social norms, and actually become," she falters a bit her cheeks blooming again, "lovers together, then casual touching is going to have to happen."

He stares disbelievingly into her eyes for a few moments before his posture unravels a bit and he places his own hand over hers squeezing a touch as his gaze finds Greg.

"Now," Sarah distracts him as he did for her moments ago. "Tell me about that dusty old bottle."

Mycroft smiles and starts to tell her about his favourite tipple, "This is a Barolo by Giacomo Conterno, from the Cascina Francia, in the Piedmont region of Italy. The grape is the Nebbiolo, which is a red italian wine grape. Thought to derive it's name from three things, _'nebbia'_ which refers to the fog that covers the region commonly during grape harvest, or the word, 'fog', referring to the fog-like milky veil that covers the mature grapes, but I prefer the idea it's derived from from the word _'nobile'_ meaning, clearly enough, noble."

Greg appears suddenly at their elbow with a carafe for decanting. "Yeah, it's noble alright, 1988 vintage with a £185 price tag makes it ridiculously 'noble'."

Mycroft blushes this time as Sarah's face blanches, at the silence, Greg looks up from the pouring he was about to do. "Oh, sorry guys, I just... I usually give Myc a hard time about what he spends money on... I, uh... I didn't think."

Sarah shakes her head quickly, waving her free hand back and forth in a negating gesture, "My parents are big into wine, so I'm not un-used to people paying a lot of money on one bottle. Actually it was the vintage that took me by surprise, wow. I'm looking forward to that _now._"

So Greg decants the wine and leaves it to breathe, turning and disappearing back into the kitchen, which is starting to emanate some _really_ lovely smells, he leaves Mycroft to get over his embarrassment with Sarah.

Mycroft's expression goes cold and Sarah can _feel_ his walls come up. "It has been said that my ability to see right to the heart of the matter is much like my younger brother's. Do you perhaps wonder if we don't have more in common?"

Worry threads it's way into her eyes, "Wh..what?"

Sensing 'blood in the water' Mycroft draws himself up all 185 cm of him, looming over her in a cold manner. "When did you first suspect my brother?"

"G..goo..goodness, what do you mean?" Suddenly Sara is aware that Mycroft _is _Sherlock's brother, and every iota as intelligent, if not more so, as Sherlock. Her grip on his sleeve becomes white knuckled as she waits for his pronouncement.

"You clearly have issues with Sherlock, every time I mention my familial connections you freeze in a hostile stance for a moment, so you blame him for something. Every time you look at Gregory and he ISN'T looking you get this far away look, that is melancholy. So not to do with Gregory, but someone like him maybe? Just as open and honest as Gregory? Bit shorter though maybe?"

Sarah takes a step back, still holding Mycroft's sleeve like a lifeline. "No, they're alike in some ways, but I'm not... I like _Greg_."

Some of the intensity bleeds away from Mycroft then, "But you worry that you'll be left out in the cold with us, _just like with John and Sherlock._ That's the real fear, that you aren't good enough to keep our attention. Just like John, even without sex his relationship with Sherlock was more rewarding than yours. That's why you always believed John was secretly fucking my little brother."

CRACK Sarah stares at Mycroft's face where a print of her fingers and palm is quickly coming up in an angry red. She blinks, spilling tears down her cheeks, as she finally lets go of the suit jacket sleeve.

Mycroft stares down at her, his face blank, completely blank: pain rolling through his nerves, as he listens to Gregory call out, "What was that? Is everything ok in there, I have my hands _very _full at the moment, do I need to come out there?" Mycroft reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief and passes it to Sarah.

"We're fine Gregory, don't mind us." lowering his voice he relaxes his posture, no longer looming there, he reaches a hand, that had been hanging by his side, out to Sarah's chin. Taking the point of it in his hand he speaks still softly, "I am sorry I said those hurtful things. I guess I'm worried about this relationship going badly.

Sarah, who since she struck Mycroft, hadn't moved, or uttered a word, reaches up with her empty hand, and curls her fingers gently over Mycroft's wrist.

"I'm the one who's sorry Mycroft." she looks searchingly into his eyes, "I know your not the most experienced bloke in relationships out there, and I know your used to having an advantage over everyone else, so I'm not going to hold a grudge, yeah? I know I slapped you, full on, and I'm sorry for that, but you bloody well deserved it, and you know it."

Mycroft nods, "I am aware that I overstepped the bounds, yes... But it is still true."

Sarah's cheeks flash red so quickly and then her face drains to white, that he worries she'll faint! She breathes slowly and calmly through her nose for a moment, then fixes him with a steely look. "I wasn't aware that I suspected that, sure I've thought, 'why didn't, he have sex with me?' 'Has he even done so since being invalided home?' The doctor in me has wondered, if not, is there a physical reason why? But I never, not for one moment thought my, yes, I'll call it catty, behaviour toward Sherlock was because I secretly thought John was having sex with him."

With a sudden quick jerk, she pulls herself and Mycroft around so they can sink into the plush sofa. "Ugh, and now, thanks to your brother enjoying wandering around in a sheet, I have mental images to go with the..."

Looking like he's landed in a vat of dog dirt, Mycroft interrupts wincing and clenching his eyes shut tight against the horror. "Oh, GOD, and now I have the images, well thank you, I think I'm fully repaid for being so callus."

So when Greg comes through the doors with a tray of crustini topped with chanterelles, he finds Sarah and Myc on the sofa leaning into each other giggling; Sarah has clearly been crying, and Myc has an obvious hand print on his face.

Grumbling in irritation, Greg puts the tray down and glares down at the two like they are children to be scolded. "What the hell? I'm gone for five minutes and you two are taking shots at one another?!"

At this the two on the sofa fall even further into giggling, and Sarah manages to point at Greg, choking out, "Yes sir!" and snapping off a salute.

Greg looks at himself, and notices the patronizing posture he's adopted; hand on hip, hip and shoulder angled aggressively forward. Frankly he was surprised Sarah hadn't said 'Yes, Mum.' the way he's standing there.

"All right, enough hilarity. Here is the first course, creamy, butter fried chanterelles, with garlic, shallots and thyme." Turning, but stopping short he tosses over his shoulder, "I'll get the champagne, if you promise not to brawl as soon as I'm gone!"

Mycroft struggles to stop laughing, "No, no, Gregory, come sit with Sarah, I'll get the Dom Perignon." Standing he removes his coat and laying it on the back of the sofa, revealing the silk backed waistcoat beneath. To Greg's delight, it also revealed the clinging lines of his trousers.

Unabashedly Greg watches Mycroft leave the room and whips his head back around at the fresh round of snickers out of Sarah. "What?"

Mirth clear in her eyes, "I don't know how you do it, when your in public, no one would know you feel this way about him. But the look you gave him just now? What are you 16!"

Greg blushes and laughs as he pulls the champagne flouts out, "Yes well, I try very hard not to look at his shapely arse when we're not alone." Sensing Mycroft behind him he continues, "I _do _ find it very hard to keep my hands off of him; he so terribly sexy you know."

Sarah breathes a murmur of assent.

Behind Greg, a gentle pop stops him, and he turns around to see Mycroft, looking at him closely, cheeks dusted in colour. Mycroft clears his throat, "Well now..." clearly deciding to affect he hadn't overheard the comment. "I'm going to tell you about this champagne, before Greg can louse it up."

Mycroft smiles winningly at Sarah, bringing her in on the jest. Starting to pour he begins to describe the champagne. "This is a 1921 Dom Perignon vintage wine. It is_ extremely_ pale for it's age, it has an interesting bouquet of toasted sandalwood, vanilla, honey, praline and marzipan. It's an energetic draught, with plenty of 'backbone', and yet it remains a focused flavour with a lacy texture and nutty flavours. It is simply a model of balance and concentration."

Sarah stares at him, and the rapidly filling glasses, "1921? You _are_ having me on aren't you?"

Greg smirks at her expression, "No, my dear he is being _completely _ truthful. He bought the two at Christies last month, and he hasn't been able to shut up since."

"Well it was quite the coup, I managed to beat out Prince Charles at the last minute! Even though his paddle came up at the last second, the auctioneer didn't see it, till it was too late, so it was awarded to me."

Mycroft tops off the flouts, as the bubbles die back, and places the bottle in the chilled bucket he brought with it. He raises his glass, "Well, here's to us." Greg and Sarah smile and their flouts chime as they strike each other gently.

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Somewhere around one AM, and they are all sitting in the living room again, Sarah reflects on the dinner they had. Somewhere after the champagne, with the custini and cream mushrooms and the seared scallops with lime & coriander; Then the blue cheese and cranberry salad that stood alone and then there was the Barolo they decanted earlier, so sublime with their confit duck with roast veggies. The lovely light chocolate mousse was paired wonderfully with a strong espresso, and now they were nibbling on some lovely cheeses and a sweet wine from Canada.

"Good lord!" shifting about so she sinks even further into the soft suede sofa, Sarah blinks slowly at the two men beside her. "This has been a very lovely meal, did you send out for it." No one says a thing for a moment as Sarah watches Mycroft smirk and Greg... blush?!

Fixing Greg with a careful look, like she's measuring out his responses exactly, "Did you make all this food Greg?" Her response is just an intensifying of the blush.

"Yes, he is quite the accomplished cook, from what he's told me, it was an idea of his ex-wife's. They were to take a cookery course to do something fun together..."

Greg interrupts him, "But that fell on it's face when I showed up 3/4s the way through a class to see her outside snogging the daylights out of another student. I went directly into the class and set my soufflé on fire. It hadn't been the first time so the next day I filed for divorce."

Sarah looks carefully at the man before her, yes he's damaged by that old hurt, but he's also the type to be sick of all the well meant sympathy that goes along with this kind of situation. She smiles, "Well she should have bet on the dark horse, I think he's a winner."

Mycroft chuckles warmly at Greg's stupefied expression, adding, "He's got the long legs of a runner, and a nice deep chest for endurance."

Sarah collapses onto Greg's shoulder in a fit of giggles, "Oh please, I'm sorry for making the allegory, no more, or soon I'll be making centaur jokes!"

A completely sly expression blankets Mycroft's face, "If he was a centaur, the 'size' of him would hardly change."

At that Sarah's giggles take on a life of their own; even as her cheeks get redder, and Greg groans at Mycroft's bad joke. "Ok you two, can you stop teasing me now, after all the work I did on dinner, and _yes_ I know I sound like the stereotypical 1950's housewife."

Now even Mycroft is slumped against Greg chuckling uncontrollably, Greg gives up and collapses against them laughing too.

Without warning the mood on the sofa shifts, and Greg finds himself between two increasingly amorous people. Sarah is sliding her hand into the small of his back, between him and the sofa, and Mycroft is slowly running his hand up Greg's inner thigh. Squeaking a bit he tries to be the voice of reason.

"Are you two sure we want to jump to this right now? Ah! ...I mean, shouldn't we wait until we're sober?" He looses track for a second as a second hand joins Mycroft's, smoothing along his inner thigh, but a firm hand squeezing him through his trousers, brings him back on point, as it were. With a gasp, Greg grabs both the offending appendages and holds them away from his body. "Can we please think about this clearly, before we screw this all up by going to far too fast?"

Mycroft heaves a sigh and smiles at Sarah gently, "I suppose we should let him have his way, he did make us a spectacular meal. However, I did send my car home," Greg interrupts with a surprised, but pleased sound. Mycroft gives him a lingering look, "as I didn't expect to be going home tonight. Would you be comfortable sleeping in Gregory's guest room?"

Sarah arches an eyebrow, "Other than not having suitable sleep wear, I am perfectly happy to doss on the sofa, a guest room would be lovely."

Greg's face splits in a huge grin and he hauls himself, and then Sarah up to their feet. "Well then my dear, let me show you the way." She replies with a quick, "Ta." and they disappear down the hall.

"This is a pretty big flat for one bloke, Greg, don't you feel alone in here?" Sara asks absentmindedly, as they pass a separate bathroom from the one in the front hall. He glances over at her as they come to the room, which contains a double bed, a wardrobe and a desk, but little in the realm of personal touches.

"I did have a smaller place, but it was too crowded, and Mycroft didn't like to come there much. Said it was strange when my kids came over, there was no separate space for them or him, we were all lumped into the same room." He looks at her carefully, "Can you see Mycroft putting up with 'average' teens?"

Overcoming her shock, "No, really I can't see that one. He has a hard enough time dealing with Sherlock, and he was probably a pretty good kid... well beyond the drugs, and the dropping out of Uni... Okay, forget I _ever_ said that please!"

"Of course."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sarah keeps talking. "So, you've been dating long enough that you got a new place to give him his own space in the house, and he interacts with your kids. How often are they over?"

Guardedly, "Once a month."

"Wow, that sucks! I want to hear all about them, but if we keep talking I'll fall asleep in the middle of a sentence."

Greg smiles, disappears for a moment then comes back in with a large dark T'shirt, "Her, wear it to bed, at least you'll be comfy." "Thank you Greg." and with a peck to his cheek she closes the door on him.

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In the master suite Mycroft is stretching out on the King sized bed, wondering if all three of them will fit, or if he'll have to order a special bed. Lazily, his eyes judge the room capable of 'carrying' a bigger bed without loosing it's proportion.

When Greg arrives, Mycroft's lack of clothing makes a quick impression, as he freezes.

"Hello D. I. what can I do for you?" Greg struggles to clear his throat, as looking over his lover's bare body robs him of the strength to breathe. His eyes track all over, lingering on the curve of his calve muscles, the light pattern of curly hair on his legs, the arch of his hip bone where Greg can practically _see_ his hand grabbing ahold and _gripping_, and the blue, _blue,_ eyes that pull at him, Myc's siren song.

Wordlessly Greg dumps his kit, regardless of it's worth he leaves it crumpled, even walking on it in his haste to fit his hands _just there_. "You can lie still and let me search you, is what you can do."

"Oh, officer..." purrs Myc incongruously playful, "anytime!"

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	11. Dinner For Three: Part B

So same as usual, I own nothing. ****THIS IS A THREESOME, THERE ARE TWO BLOKES NAKED IN THE SAME BED!**** Go read something else if you don't like it.

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The room is dim when Sarah's eyes open, and her gaze blearily settles on the table beside her bed. For a moment she can't remember why the wall in front of her is a mild green, not the dark russet it should be. 'Right, too late, too full, and too tired to even walk home last night.'

As soon as she sees the clock on the mantle, Sarah groans loudly, it's ten to five on a Sunday morning! What the bleeding hell is she doing awake after less than four hours sleep?! Grumbling under her breath she levers herself up out of her bed and looks at her reflection in the floor length mirror gracing a corner by the door. The T'shirt hangs well past her mid thigh, so she figures she's ok to wander about, just in case someone is up.

Smacking her lips together, she kneads at her temples with her fingertips, 'Water, I need water; champagne, stupidly expensive, dehydrating champagne, and ditto to that wine!' She creeps, as quietly as she can, down the hall towards the kitchen. She didn't go into the kitchen the night before, so Sarah's a bit surprised at what's behind the spring weighted door.

There are three prep tables/islands in the centre of the room, that is circled with counter space, and above cupboard storage. Looking around a bit, she sees an open harth, finds the walk in pantry, and a giant, double door, upright fridge freezer. After randomly looking in uppers she finds a glass and fills it from the tap, casting a look around again at the spotless room she wonders, 'When did Greg clear up?'

Refilling the glass for a second time, while trying to blink back the pain dancing through her head, Sarah thinks about where she might find some paracetamol.

Coming out of the kitchen, she travels past the fireplace in the dinning room; entering the other end of the hallway. Wondering to herself if she could sneak past the men, to the en suit, as the main bathroom yields no pain killers, Sarah searches the cabinet a second time just to be sure.

Steeling herself, she presses gently on the door to see if it's open, it gives a bit, so she presses it inward. There's no sound from within so she presses a bit harder. 'I'll just sneak past them and check in their bathroom.' she thinks to herself as the door swings open.

The massive room comes into view, and Sarah has to stifle a gasp, the awe overcoming her for a moment. The room itself is immense with shuttered glass walls to the outside and a deep blue walls, broken up with bookshelves and a fireplace on the inside. Off to her left she sees the door to the loo, and beyond a massive (walk in?) wardrobe, but at the moment, she is too distracted by the centre of the room to care.

On a raised platform the _huge_ bed is a bit crumpled, and Sarah can see one long pale leg sticking out of the duvet, toes to hip. She feels her cheeks getting warm, and eyes widening, as she takes in the length of creamy lightly haired leg. The reason for her intrusion fades from her mind, and she takes a step towards the bed, drawing up short as the leg starts to disappear.

There's a murmur of voices from the bed, and Sarah panics. She turns and dashes into the bathroom, heedlessly knocking the door against the wall; she freezes in her tracks. One hand on the wall she stares sightlessly at the beautiful en suit, trying desperately to get her heart to stop _thumping_ it's way through her chest! After a few moments of holding her breath, waiting for one of the men to appear in the doorway, Sarah begins to think she has been undetected.

"Can I help you find anything?"

Sarah practically jumps out of her skin as she spins around to see Mycroft standing in the doorway, discreetly hidden under a blanket.

"I... uh, I was," Sarah turns away a bit and covers the side of her face with her hand in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I'm knackered and have a hang over that could kill an ox. I just needed some paracetamol."

Mycroft nods, "I'm terribly sorry I didn't think of that. Champagne has a reputation of doing that, let alone the older vintages." He strides past her to a cabinet built into the wall. "Greg has all the medications in here so he knows what the kids have access to. He's a bit overprotective if you ask me."

"Yeah well..." a topless Greg in silken sleep trousers is suddenly at the doorway, causing Sarah to whip around again, unconiously dragging the edge of her borrowed shirt down further. "you did let your little brother become a serious user with that kind of thinking."

Alarmed, Sarah pivots back to see how Mycroft takes the comment, but his expression has, if anything, humour in it.

"Then by all means, my friend, lock it all up. After all, none of that whole deal with Sherlock could have anything to do with him excelling at hiding from me when he chooses."

Greg chuckles back, "Well get it for her then, I'm going to go collapse _I'm_ still knackered!"

Mycroft presses a cool glass and two paracetamol into her hand, "My lady? I hope they help." Sarah gives him a grim look and tosses the pills back. Feeling a bit uncomfortable she follows after Mycroft, into the bedroom proper. Finding Greg lying on the bed with his feet hanging off the end, not knowing quite what to do she lingers in the area she walked before, so she can slip out at a moments notice.

Mycroft looks back as he ascends careful not to loose the blanket, "Please Sarah, we are all awake, come talk with us." He then settles himself against the huge headboard, arranging the blanket around himself just so.

"Yes, please, now that I'm awake I'll not sleep again this morning." Greg flops around till he's more beside Mycroft yet still on the other side of the bed, leaving most of the bed open for Sarah to come perch on.

Her cheeks growing intolerably hot, as she approaches the two steps of the platform, she begins to notice things. Like the closer she gets, the more dark pink marks she can see along the arch of Mycroft's neck, and corresponding marks down the back of Greg's neck.

One foot on the steps, she realises, like a bolt out of the blue, that she has interrupted their morning fun.

"I should just go, I don't want to intrude. I never would have come in here if I had found some paracetamol." Turning she makes to leave, and Greg hops up and off the bed, in one huge step he has a hand on her shoulder turning her back around.

"No Sarah, I'm glad we noticed you coming in." he pulls her in a bit closer, the heat radiating of his bare barrel of a chest.

For a moment entranced, she gazes at his chest, drawn to the muscular breadth of it, his pectorals highlighted by his chest hair, Her eyes flicker up to slide slowly from his thick shoulders down to his neat, narrow waist. Rocking forward against her will, she feels herself responding to his heat and inhaling his dark, almost coffee flavoured scent. Becoming aware that she's been standing there too long Sarah flickers a look over at Mycroft, who is looking at her with obvious yearning in his eyes. A moan of surprise sticks in her throat for a moment, but escapes her when Greg's hand runs down, off her shoulder, down the length of her arm and his thick course fingers gently close around her wrist.

"Sit and talk with us please." Sarah looks into Greg's eyes, even as she watches his pupils expand, she shakes her head slightly. "This isn't a good idea Greg, we're not thinking clearly about this."

Mycroft coughs delicately into his hand to distract them. "I think the time for half measures and talk is over. Please sit down so we can continue this conversation properly."

Sarah's stomach flips over at the smooth tenor voice pouring into her, halting her attempts to leave. Taking in a slow even breath, she changes tack and walks up the steps in front of Greg and sits on the end of the bed closest to the door.

Greg's grin near enough splits his face in two as he crawls back onto the bed above her, on the pillows, lying on his side facing Mycroft and angled slightly towards him.

For a moment there is silence as she appreciates the picture the two of them make, both looking at her with longing. Leaning back against the slight footboard, Sarah waits to see who's going to start, Mycroft waits till she settles then begins talking.

"I'll start out by saying, I think we are all remarkably suited to one another, somehow in a very short time we have felt out the pitfalls with one another, and I don't believe we can come to a clearer decision than we can right now. Regardless of how long we wait."

Looking at Greg and Sarah intently he continues, "I know saying these things can be daunting, so I'll go first, take the plunge, as it were. I care a great deal for Gregory, and I have always been mildly interested in the farer sex. My dear Sarah, you are an amazing example there of. So there I am, all laid bare," he fiddles with an edge of his blanket a bit, "almost literally. Greg?"

Leaning back far enough to fall onto his back, Greg looks up to Mycroft, "My turn is it?" He flashes a smile up at Mycroft before looking to Sarah, "Well, I know you know how I feel, but I'll spell it out, right? This potty, posh bugger here, well I love him, don't I? In such a short time, I've felt more security in _this_ relationship, than I ever did with my ex-wife. The question is how do I feel about you. I won't be as vague as Myc, I love your attitude, whit, and frankly, your cracking body, because you are a very fit bird Sarah. I think I can very quickly fall for you, Sarah Sawyer, what about you?"

Sara looks over each of them sharply, then gestures to a spot on the bed between the two men. "May I?"

"Of course." they chime together, and Sarah moves forward on the bed. Noting where Mycroft's crossed knees end, and the angle at which Greg's body cuts across the bed, she settles easily within the personal space of both of them.

"I think I agree that the time for talking has ended, if you'll permit it, I'd like to do a bit of exploring." Greg just smiles and nods, while Mycroft pulls back one edge of the blanket revealing a bent knee, of the creamy, lightly haired leg, she had seen before.

Smiling into his eyes, Sarah slides her hand down his shin wrapping her hand around Mycroft's ankle, exactly as he did the night before, applying a bit of pressure, biting in with her fingertips. Greg huffs out a breath, as though he forgot to keep breathing.

She casts her eyes over to his, which are huge, the pupils blown wide, looking at her hand on his lover. With no small amount of amusement she says, "You wait your turn 'Gregory'."

Mycroft barks out a laugh, and sinks back into the pillows a bit more, giving Sarah a _'well then - get on with it'_ kind of look. Deciding to be bold, she tugs the blanket away from Mycroft's body and runs her soft hands lightly over what she finds.

Acres of that creamy skin, scattered with freckles, greets her eyes. Coming to her knees beside Mycroft, she runs her hand up the inside of his thigh and down the inside of the other one, smirking to herself at the surprised sound issuing from Mycroft. Placing her hands on his knees, she presses gently on them, "Straighten your legs."

Mycroft wordlessly complies, but is shocked into groaning when Sarah, unceremoniously, climbs into his lap. Greg's voice slips out past his clenched teeth to join Mycroft's moan. Sarah, looking over at him, explains, "Well? I need to be able to reach him, don't I? Thought this position would be more versatile." Still holding Greg's eyes, she lowers her full weight onto Mycroft, who groans, again, at the sensation of her pants rubbing against his naked flesh.

Greg feels his jaw hang loose, as Mycroft's hips start shifting restlessly, aching for pressure, wanting to arch upwards, unsure of whether he should make the request. Sarah, having checked to make sure Mycroft was on the same page as her, gathers up Greg's regard and gestures him to join them.

Rumbling under his breath, he hoists himself up and mounts Mycroft's knees behind Sarah, pitching her forward slightly. With a quiet, "May I?" Answered with a nod he anchors himself to her by sliding his left hand around her hip. His hand drags slowly on the slightly sweaty skin, as it travels down and around to the bottom of her abdomen. Shifting slightly he slots his silk clad erection against her buttocks, then his right hand snakes around and up, under the T'shirt to firmly palm her loose breast.

Sarah mewls and throws her head back. Greg grins into Mycroft's faintly expectant expression and hugs her body to his own, then grinds both of them forward and down onto Mycroft. Who for his part chokes out a moan and thrusts up against them helplessly.

Sarah laughs a bit hysterically, "Oh _god_, you two are going to ruin me for anyone else!" and arches her head to the side as Greg starts sucking and gnawing on the back of her neck. "This can't stop, right? No one is going to say stop?"

Greg's lethally sexy voice caresses her neck, "Ah, no, but that's rather the point isn't it?" He presses back with his left hand, grinding his erection against her, his fingers slipping just under the waistband of her pants with intent. "I've just gotten the two of you where I want you, and I'm never giving it up." Switching his right hand over to the other breast, Greg persuades another half swallowed shriek out of Sarah, by pinching her nipple between his fingers as he cups and massages the breast. She's is shuddering with sensation, all she can do is moan and grind back and forth between the men.

Sensing her abandon, Greg turns his attention to Mycroft, who's eyes are glassy with repressed feelings. "Sarah? My hands are full, be a dear and _touch_ Myc for me."

Mycroft's eyes grow wide, and one tear manages to escape it's confines. Sarah, to his eyes looking a bit embarrassed, leans even further toward him, running her hands up his chest, over his throat and into his hair, toying with the nape of his neck. His hands, which had been loosely grasping her upper thighs, snap up to grab at her waist, brushing over Greg's arm.

On the next thrust, he groans, feeling Greg's fingers, moving rhythmically in her pants, pressing against him too. Trying to shake loose of this swamping lust, Mycroft desperately tries to distance himself from what's happening.

Sarah, seeing that 'Holmesian' look in his eyes, grumbles to herself, "Oh no you don't!" Kicking back with her lower back she unseats Greg enough that she has the room to fold herself down on top of Mycroft's fully naked body, ripping off her borrowed shirt as she goes. "I'm loosing my mind here; you, Mycroft Holmes, are going with me!"

Mycroft, for his part, is frozen in horror over his carful barriers, that, with Greg, had been having troubles, and are now being completely swamped! He feels a giddy sick sensation low in his core as Greg's velvet chuckle sounds along with the slip and slide of _so_ much flesh, and too many hands, his brain blanks out. There is suddenly for the first time, _nothing_ for his barriers to stand on, and unwillingly his body, suddenly freed from the restraint, begins to hurtle toward ecstasy.

Greg while pushed back from Sarah moments ago, reached back with his right hand and wrenched his silk sleep trousers down, freeing his impressively hard erection. Trying to return his hand back to her breast, he realises the two below him are practically melded together. So he pulls at her right hip and when she follows his movement a bit, he slides his hand down to cover Mycroft's erection, pleasuring both his partners at the same time.

Happily rutting between her legs, the head of his erection encounters his own fingers plunging in and out of Sarah, grunting at the extra sensations, Greg props his forehead in between Sarah's shoulder blades and ups the pace.

They aren't going to last long, everyone who can think straight, knows that, Sarah is gripping Greg's fingers, and waves of juices flood his hand and the pants, time and time again. Her body is shaking with tremors she can't control, and there's a high pitched keening being drug out of her.

Mycroft's eyes are wide, and Greg would say sightless, but he knows better. Those eyes are looking deep into Greg, begging with every trembling tear that escapes. Begging him to stop before it's too late, begging him to never stop again, Greg never sees what the expression changes to since Sarah shifts her hands to pull Mycroft's mouth to her as she repeats the attack on his body with her mouth. Her pretty lips covering his and blocking Greg's view, so he pulls back, bracing between her shoulder blades again, and increases the strength of his thrusts.

Dimly he's aware of Mycroft's muffled keening, and he can feel an abrupt warm wetness splashing his forearm, instantly Sarah locks down on his fingers and all he can do is keep thrusting, his own orgasm chasing the others. Enraptured in the exotic fantasy playing out under him, it does not take long.

Still shuddering, Greg knows from experience that he's too heavy to collapse on Mycroft, so he maneuvers slightly to the side, carrying Sarah with him. It's only after two or three minutes of reflection, studded by contented noises, that a thought swims to the surface in Greg's mind.

"Oh god Sarah, I came all over your pants, you should get them off right away!"

Sarah, still a bit slow to react, and possibly still coming down from the orgasm, waves him off eventually. "Oh no, no worries, I have the Mirena coil." Looking down at Greg who has frozen in the action of removing her pants, she clarifies. "It's Okay, it's birth control."

Greg nods and keeps taking them off, then removes his sleep trousers that were around his knees. Lying back down he shrugs, "They were wet." Sarah shakes her head and turns over to Mycroft, who has been silent all this time.

Mycroft's eyes are dry, but it's clear his barriers are still down. He has a particularly lost cast to his expression, and he has turned his head away from them.

Sarah elbows Greg and then clambers over to the far side of Mycroft, falling into his field of view with her back to him. Cautiously she insinuates herself into his arms, which after a second, he gets the hint and gathers her closely, holding on with a fierce tightness, which Greg repeats from behind him. In this embrace they all drift off to sleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx

Just a note, paracetamol is the UK version of Tylenol, and a Mirena coil in IUCD _Intrauterine Contraceptive Device, _something that a young single female doctor would have I should think. It's miles more effective than the pill or condoms.


	12. Some Serious Thinking

OKAY! Sorry I've been gone so long! I had a bit of a time with this beast, the research was tricky and required BILLIONS of google windows! I also had a few problems with the site not wanting me to upload, but it's all good now. I'll miss quote Angel (BtVS) here, 'must have been bored warlocks' at work!

And for those who have waited so LONG for me to get back to the meat and potatoes of this fic, it's a Johnlock chapter, exclusively. Not my characters, not my world, I just borrow to play! No warnings, this chapter is even work safe ;P Enjoy.

Chapter 11: Some Serious Thinking

John spent as much time as he could out of the flat over that Saturday. Sherlock had said they were done practicing, so he felt free to be elsewhere, but honestly what was he supposed to do? He was sick of roaming by 3PM! Which is why he was sitting in the posh cafe over on Leather Lane near St Barts by 5PM.

Looking around the seriously trendy spot, John thinks to himself that Sherlock won't look here, not in a million years! It is so, unlike John, this place, that he feels, and knows, he looks out of place, as he lets two or three people go before him in the queue while he reads the menu.

Finally giving up and ordering a cappuccino, then finding a quiet corner to hide, John sits on the wooden bench and thinks.

While he thinks, he sees two men behind the counter talking, they are clearly in a relationship, and no one cares. No, it's not that they are acting inappropriate or anything, more they remind him of the landlord and chef of the Cross Keys, in their Dartmoor adventure so long ago. A hand lingers on an arm a bit too long, a smile holds too much emotion, or even a look held a bit too long. John groans, 'Now I'm displacing my problems on a harmless trophy winning barista.'

Leaning his head back against the white wall, John closes his eyes for a moment. Even after walking around London since 8AM that morning, he's has not been able to silence the roar in his mind. John's beginning to be at a loss, as to what he's to do.

In the back of his mind there seems to be a film running of all sorts of looks, casual touches, comments, as well as the image that leapt to mind the night before. Overlaid on that is the dream he had the week before that won't go away, and on top of _that_ there's all the 'visual files' from their work getting comfortable in scanty clothing... It all makes for a rather disturbing _soup_ in his head, and every time he starts thinking about it he can feel his libido kicking in.

Now _that_ was something really strange! John hasn't ever lusted after Sherlock before, why now? Don't people play these dominance games to disappear? So when they're kneeling no one sees them?

Well that sure as bloody well fails in Sherlock's case! But why?! All John can think is, 'Why is no one offering themselves up to that beautiful body on display. Who knows, might get lucky...'

With a muffled groan John thumps his head against the wall a number of times, so many in fact that the young lady on the till comes and asks if he's alright. John says he's fine (_LIAR_) and would she fancy going for a drink after work. She blushes, looks down, making John think she's not used to the attention.

"No, sorry. I..." she looks over her shoulder to her boss, the famous barista, "just no. Your such a nice bloke, I mean... oh darn it. I've got to go." With that she practically runs back to her till.

John tries _not _ to take it badly and goes back to his coffee and spaghetti-like thoughts. Clearing his throat, John decides to take this knot on and blood well _unravel it!_

But the question is where is the beginning, where's the 'keystone' thought that will break it apart? John is absolutely confused, grumbling in confusion to himself he fishes out his mobile and turns it on to text Sarah.

"Need that talk, you free? JW"

"OMG! No! Date night... eek! SO nervous. Tomorrow? SS"

John chuckles at that one, thinking about Sarah fretting over a date with Greg and Mycroft.

"Right on! Wear the _boots_ they are outstanding. Tomorrow's fine. Coffee? Lunch? JW"

"Don't know Greg said supper'd be long/a lot of food. Don't know when I'll want to eat. Can we decide tomorrow? SS"

"Sure I'll text you in the PM. Decide then. JW"

"Ta Ta then. SS"

"Cheers. JW"

Just as he's sending the last message, a body plunks itself down across from him making him almost drop the phone. Irritated John starts to tell the person to piss off, but his voice leaves him when he catches sight of those glittering silver green eyes. His brain can only process that his flatmate's eyes are bright, but a colour John usually equates with Sherlock being annoyed, or trying to suppress emotions. Like he's trying to drown them in the grey colour.

Sherlock glances down at his hands, "So tonight's the big night, huh? I wonder if she'll keep Mycroft in line, or if he'll do what he always does."

John blinks a few times rapidly, "Ok, I'll take it as a given you know who I'm texting, and guess that she's getting ready for a date, otherwise she'd be here, but what the hell does Mycroft "do" that's so bad? You should have told me."

His voice cloyingly sweet, pitched high, Sherlock responds, "So you could _save _Sarah, and she could be eternally _grateful_. Oh maybe she should take you back, give it another go?" Sherlock's voice drops a register, "I think not."

John, shocked silent at the venom in those short sentences, "Okay... Tell me now then, and I'll tell you something you _don't_ know about Mycroft and Greg's relationship."

Sherlock's eyebrows flicker up in shock, "Something I _don't _know." he murmurs lowly, his eyes boring into John's watching for... something. John has no idea what, but his collar is getting warm!

"Very well, Mycroft has a habit of reading people, much like I do, but when it's personal, he's a bit blinded and, well, he looks for the most damaging secrets and rousts them to compensate."

John's face is a picture of distress, "Oh god! You know Mycroft is going to make some horrid deductions and you didn't say anything? Sherlock!"

The accused tilts his head to the side a touch, "Bit, not good?"

"No Sherlock, rather not."

Waving away John's concern with a flippant hand, "Oh John, you certainly do Dr. Sawyer a disservice, she can deal with anything Mycroft can dish out. After all, I couldn't shift her either, and I wasn't trying to get in her pants."

A bit mollified, John nods, "Right, she can stand up to the best, or rather worst there is... Hang on a tick, are you saying you _tried_ to get rid of Sarah?"

"Oh, you are _not_ boring today John! First you find this blot hole, then you see through all my tricks! You are on fire."

"Yeah, yeah, all right, no distracting me with compliments Sherlock, answer the question."

"I didn't want her gone, per say, but I felt I had to stake my claim on your free time, I guess." Sherlock turns in his chair so he's looking out the front window, and continues before John can speak. "I was worried, we hadn't been friends for long, and I was worried you'd get a girlfriend and run off and forget about me and the work."

These words are spoken to the open air, the speaker being super careful to avoid eye contact. John's stomach drops and he realises Sherlock is afraid; of telling him this, of that scenario still happening. Heat flushes through him at that thought, and John reaches across the table slowly, placing a hand on Sherlocks wrist, a hand Sherlock is regarding with suspicion.

"Sherlock, what ever woman comes along, that I might fall in love with, and possibly marry, would have to understand that you are important too. That you, and the work, would often trump her as far as my time goes. Do you understand that?"

Looking up from John's hand his eyes lock with John for a long moment, then, "Understand, yes. Believe... when I see it."

John, playing it off light heartedly, as his heart breaks a bit for them both, "Oh Sherlock! Don't be silly, I'll always be here for you. I promise you that."

Before John's eyes the blues and greens seem to swim back into Sherlock's eyes... Or maybe it's just a reflection off of something, but a movement over at the counter distracts John from contemplating Sherlock's eyes. The young woman he tried to pull earlier is talking to one of the men John was mentally deducing earlier. With alarm he realises all his deductions could fit to the two of them at the moment, and that they are making the same connection.

Indeed, even as he quickly retracts his hand, she comes over with a plate with two brownies, smiling down at them.

John pales, the reason for the complimentary cakes clear. He looks at Sherlock as though he's grown a second head when Sherlock takes the plate from her and places it between them, "Cheers! I gave him enough time to think about it, eh?"

"Oh yes! He clearly had a lot on his mind, it took him five minutes to order just a cappuccino. We all noticed how distracted he was." With a sinking feeling John tries to pay attention to the young woman, "We also noticed he was watching the owner and his partner quite closely, so we guessed something was amiss. So, sit and talk, my employer sent these over to keep you sitting down together for a while. He thinks you two can sort it out."

She turns to go, offering up, "As do I." over her shoulder with a saucy wink, before returning to the till.

John feels like the room is swimming and Sherlock is nibbling on one of the brownies. Dropping his head into his hands, John suppresses the urge to rage, or cry. "God Sherlock, why is it _everyone_ thinks we're shagging?"

His sight blocked, John misses the panicked look that flits across Sherlock's face. "I don't know."

When John looks up, he's alone and one of the brownies is gone. Pulling an angry face he grabs up his phone.

"Where the hell did you go? JW"

"I had to get out, you were yelling at me. SH"

"No I wasn't. JW"

"Not with words John, not words. SH"

"Excuse me?"

Not wanting to, John looks up into the worried face of the cashier, "Yes?" he asks, foreboding heavy in his voice.

"I'm terribly sorry, did I... was there... I only..."

"Look I'll save you from floundering for the correct question. He's a prat, and has a talent for saying the worst thing and then stomping off as though _you've_ grievously hurt him. I've known him for six years and it will not change."

As John speaks her face clouds with more urgency. "Not to contradict you about your partner, but I saw his eyes just before he... left, and it wasn't pretty."

Seeing John was about to discredit her comment, she holds a hand up to stop him. "Before you say it, no. No one was looking at him, I only caught it in the reflection of that mirrored frame. You weren't looking either, so who would he be acting for?"

Having delivered this proclamation she leaves again, with John sitting there his hand in a vague 'pointing' gesture, the other half of his conversation wandering off.

Feeling a bit put out he eats the brownie in one bite and drains the cold dregs of his cappuccino, shuddering at the taste. Smiling slightly at the cashier and nodding to the owner and his partner who seem to be watching him with pity/resentment, John escapes into the streets. Moments later his phone buzzes.

"Clearly we need to work on communication. Meet me at 34 Charlotte St. W1T 2NH at 8PM. I'll bring your jacket. SH"

John groans and googles the address. "Shite, what _is_ he up to?" But after a moments thought about what the woman said about Sherlock looking hurt, he sighs and texts back.

"Never mind I'll go home and change. See you there. JW"

"You still have to tell me what you _know_ John. SH"

John laughs at that and waves down a taxi.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

At 19:50 John stepped out of the taxi in front of Pied a Terre and had to lean back into the cab and check he got the address right.

Straitening his suit jacket John shakes his head, "Bloody hell Sherlock, what _are_ you up to?" Moving out of his usual stance of military parade rest, John advances on the front doors, and the host. As he opens the door he catches a reflection of himself in the highly polished surfaces and has to do a double take.

"Sir, can I help you?"

John drags his attention back to the host, "Sorry, yes. Holmes party please."

To John's irritation that contemplative look lights the man's eyes for a moment as he, under his impeccable manners, looks shocked. "Yes, of course sir. Right this way."

Upon entering into the empty bar, John looks around for Sherlock, not seeing him, John assumes - correctly - he arrived first. Squaring his shoulders, (quite impressive in his midnight blue, double breasted blazer) John strides up to the bar and asks the bartender after their selection of scotches. The bartender launches into a description of various 15 to 50 year old whiskeys.

John with a huff, and glance down at _the suit_, decides to splash out, "I'll have a Balvenie 50, please." With a hum of approval the draught is poured into a tulip shaped lowball. "Please be seated sir, I'll bring your drink over."

John nods and turns toward a white leather arm chair, barely pausing, with surprise, as he notes Sherlock lounging in the second chair. John smirks at Sherlock's skin tight bottle neck green button down under his dark charcoal suit, and sits down slowly.

Immediately at his elbow appears a silver tray with his draught of scotch and a small carafe of water. Looking up at the waiter John carefully adds a couple drops of water and then tastes the scotch. Nodding to himself he dismisses the waiter.

"And you Mr. Holmes?" John arches an eyebrow at the use of Sherlock's name.

"I'm fine for the moment, you can bring the champagne out in a few minutes, when Dr. Watson is finished with his scotch."

With a, "Very well sir." the waiter disappears.

Sherlock looks John over, "You look quite dashing, if a touch dated, still years ahead of your usual fashion efforts." John blinks several times and then covers his eyes with his left hand, taking a moment to gather himself, staring into the scotch he can't taste any more. Sherlock observes with interest.

"It's quite a fashionable label for you, Mr. I-Love-My-Jumpers-John Watson, but a few years back dated, so most likely bought on the last season's sales, your not the type to indulge in a big ticket cost, as such a suit would be, for just any event, so it must have been an important occasion, yet I can see by the cuffs, and the edges of the pleats, that suit has never been out of the box." Sherlock's eyes narrow as he looks, seemingly, all over John, taking in the slim cut double breasted suit and observing John's attempted privacy with the white knuckled grip on the scotch glass. "I see... You didn't go?"

Dropping his hand to reveal the tears swimming in his eyes, "I was too bloody messed up _Sherlock_, I lost almost a week to staring at your bloody _chair. I definitely _couldn't attend your funeral._ " _John delivered the statement like a targeted missile, quietly and near toneless, but Sherlock knows that is because John is past emotion, he's this upset... still. He slides forward in his chair and grabs up the hand John just dropped in his lap.

"John, if I could go back and change it I would, I really would."

And just like that, John shuts his eyes and his anger melts away. "Yes I'm sorry Sherlock, I think the suit..."

Sherlock squeezes the hand once and then places on John's knee again. "Opening the box, perhaps, even remembering breaking the seal, brought it all back. If there had been another way John, I would have done, I swear it."

Looking over John's shoulder Sherlock slides back in his chair again, "How about we have a nice meal tonight and see if you can't get some better memories attached to that suit."

John manages a tremulous smile as the waiter appears with Champagne in a bucket of ice. Two flouts are quickly and competently filled, "I'll just leave this for you gentlemen, just signal when you need assistance." before disappearing again.

"Wow, they are sneaky! How do they do it?"

Sherlock smiles, "There's a full wall mirror on an angled hallway outside the kitchen, they keep watch from there to see if we need anything."

Putting his empty glass down, John watches Sherlock inspect the bottle and sip his champagne. "So Sherlock, not that I don't enjoy getting dressed up and coming to a really posh place, I'm curious. What are we doing here?"

Sherlock smirks, "I do enjoy coming to places like this from time to time, but the real incentive came when I realised Mycroft would be busy tonight, so we wouldn't 'accidentally' bump into him here." John chuckles, "You decided to pay a couple hundred pounds for our tea, just because you were certain of Mycroft's location? That is so you."

"Yes well, I also wanted to show my appreciation for you, trying so hard, vise a vie this costume issue. I know an evening like this is normally out of reach for you, because of your practicality, so I thought I'd treat you. Problem?"

John thinks for a few minutes, watching Sherlock refilling their flouts, "No, I don't think so."

Sherlock passes over the champagne, "So... What _is _it you know that I don't?"

John snickers, "That Mycroft is becoming _very_ emotionally involved in this group relationship."

With an arched eyebrow, "Really? What tells you this?"

With his voice even, and his face animated John picks up the thread of gossip. "You remember last Thursday, when I was late coming home and you assumed I was staying out to avoid practice?"

Sherlock smirks, "Yes, and you were."

Defensively now, "No I wasn't Sherlock, I just had to sort out Greg and Mycroft! Which I did, rather quickly, might I add, and I came right home."

"Indeed." For a few minutes they are both quiet, having strayed into separate, but similar, remembrances of the evening and the time that followed. John shakes himself out of it first.

"In any case, not just once, but at least _three_ times I saw emotional turmoil _on his face!"_

"Well that is indeed very interesting, maybe Mycroft has finally found his way."

"Maybe, I wish them all the best."

Sherlock holds up his flout in a silent toast, which John reciprocates, and they fall into silence again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

John and Sherlock, having been brought through to a private dinning room, and having had five courses, are taking a pause before the selections of cheeses and the final four courses. John for one has _never_ seen Sherlock eat so much! But he can't blame him, everything has been delightful. His favorite was the lamb, closely followed by the scallops, but really everything was wonderfully tasty.

"God Sherlock!" John exclaims as the cheese platter arrives. "We do this more often I might have to start eating like you!"

Sherlock, who has had rather more wine than he normally does, giggles, "Can you just see us, feasting and fasting? Everyone with think I've driven you round the bend! And all of it just for the love of French food!" and collapses in giggles for a moment. John, privy to this, most unusual moment, just stares. The life in Sherlock's expression is awe inspiring, 'How can people even suggest he's cold or heartless. They just don't bloody bother to look.'

"John?"

Snapped out of his musings, John blinks rapidly and focuses on Sherlock, not his internal rant. "Begging your pardon Sherlock?"

"I don't know, we were laughing, and you looked happier, than I've seen since I've come back home to you. Suddenly you're face fell, and your glowering at the table setting. I wish to know what upset you."

John, blushes and pokes at a grape on his plate, "I was just thinking about how _alive_ you are, and I confess, the idea of people not _seeing you_ for who and what you are angers me deeply." He flickers a look up at Sherlock's bewildered face, "The idea that you have gone your entire life, with people sniping around you..." John takes a steadying breath. "Sherlock, tell me. Has there ever been anyone who saw through, to you, to this?"

Sherlock's expression shutters a bit as he looks deep into his wine glass, "Well, there was one person in Uni..."

"Sherlock?" John tries to draw his gaze up again, and when Sherlock does look up, he starts at the expression in those eyes, an even mix of hopelessness and agony. Suddenly the end of Sherlock's sentence is appallingly clear. John's grip on his wine glass tightens suddenly, and Sherlock is sure he heard it crack. His face a mask of determination John sets the wine glass down and forges forward. "Wilks?"

The flash of humiliation and fear on Sherlock's face is answer enough.

John places his hands on the table to either side of his placesetting, clenched in fists so tight the fingers have gone completely white, he tries to get a rein on his anger. "How? He was so... nasty about your deductions, how could he have 'seen you', and still been such an arse?"

"Sebastian has always been an arse... But, for a while, he was... different behind closed doors. We roomed together in our second year, and he kept walking in on me in the shower." A blush stains his cheeks, "It took me an embarrassingly long time to realise _why_ he was doing it. Really I started 'deducing' people as due course because of that... you never know what predilections they might be hiding."

John is surprised to hear himself growling under his breath, he clears his throat and reaches for his normal calm behaviour. "Go on Sherlock, please."

Sherlock concentrates, his eyebrows traveling up in shock, on the tray of cheeses to distract himself from John's reactions. "Well, we carried on a bit, nothing serious, but I was convinced we were in love, course that does tend to happen when you're told it on a regular basis. Poor Sebastian, as you saw at the restaurant, he is a victim of worrying what people think of him. So when people began to talk... Well, he stopped spending so much time in our room, and after a couple of weeks I caught him snogging a girl on the commons at the dorm."

With a self deprecating smirk he locks eyes with John again, "In my anger I was... not discreet. I shouted at him, carrying on about, 'for a man who told me he loved me, and begged me to shove my cock up his arse, Seb has a strange way of showing it!' He became, much more of an arse after that, and requested new rooms that same day."

John, having gone from rage to snickering again, beams at Sherlock. "Oh, how perfect! I can JUST see the expression on his weasely face! What a git."

Sherlock just enjoys his friend's restored good humour.

Suddenly serious, John takes up his wine glass again, his mind spinning with all the information. "Has no one else gotten close? I know you said no, but... really?"

Sherlock shakes his head, "Well, you could count Mrs. Hudson, but I think your driving at a different point. The answer to that is no. No one. Well..." the words seemingly pulled from him against his will, "you see me, but no one else."

John's ears go red as he tosses back his wine. Half to himself and half into his glass, he mutters, "How could I not?"

Sherlock affects not to have heard John. Who knows it, and appreciates it, as _he's _not sure what he meant by it.

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After their overwhelmingly marvelous meal, John suggests they walk home and work off some of the desserts, Sherlock agrees. So they wander along Mortimer street their shoulders rubbing every few steps companionably. Taking a right at the Cock & Lion on Marylebone lane they head up to Blandford street, and onto Baker street.

As they round the corner, the familiar expanse of Baker street in front of them, a thought occurs to John and he turns and pins Sherlock with a glare.

"Sherlock? How did you find me at Prufrock?"

Not pausing in his long legged pursuit of his front door, Sherlock laughs, "You turned your phone on."

John stares at his back as his feet slow to a stop, "You were tracking me through my phone?"

Sherlock stops, exasperatedly and turns to see John standing in the middle of the pavement. Looking his friend over carefully, he surmises John is finished being put off. "John, I'd rather not have this conversation in the middle of the street where everyone can see."

John stares for a good long while, "The minute we get in Sherlock, I'm not even fixing tea first."

With Sherlock's nod they continue on.

As soon as the lower door to the flat is shut Sherlock starts talking while shepherding John up the stairs and over to his chair. "After the incident at the pool I uploaded a script to your phone, that works as a tracker app, if you will, so as long as your phone is on, not necessarily active, but powered up, I can trace you to within a structure."

John slumps back against the cushions of the chair, staring at Sherlock.

"I admit it's an invasion of privacy, but it has been such a comfort to me in the interim years that I don't regret it, regardless of how angry it makes you." He stops pacing right in front of John, looking down at him for a few moments, then sits down in his chair slowly, watching John, watch him.

John, taciturn, marches into the kitchen and starts making tea, Sherlock remains where he is, giving him an excellent view of John in his suit. The flat is silent while the tea is made, and indeed till John is again in his chair sipping away.

"Just one question Sherlock. Do you think it's fair of you?"

Sherlock puts down his tea and regards him carefully, "In what way John?"

"Well..." clearly putting thought into the phrasing of the statement, "unless it was a short range kind of app, that means you could track me, whenever you wanted, while you were away. Do you think that was fair?"

"No."

John nods a couple of times and then heaves himself out of the bed. "Alright then, I'm off to bed, it is after all, good lord half two again! Goodnight Sherlock."

And with that, John Watson is gone.

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Just a note, if you are one of those philistines that puts ICE in your scotch, buy better scotch and stop it! Propper scotch should only have a couple drops of room temp water added to 'open up' the flavours... And that's not me sayin' it, it's, like, the LAW in Scotland, or so my Aberdonian mates tell me.

BTW Aberdonian means someone who hales/comes from the city of Aberdeen on the NE coast of Scotland.

And please don't get miffed if you like it 'on the rocks' I used to do it too.


	13. Some Serious Thinking Part B

Up front I'd like to thank Telula 13, who's been sweeping up my messes behind me, and catching glaring errors. I've kinda outpaced my beta a wee bit! She's been helpful in the past, and this time we nipped it in the bud. Yes sir, no double alerts for ch what ever this is! I did my correction BEFORE uploading!

Don't forget, not mine (cause if it was we'd have the flash drive scene in live action ON TAPE. And of course I'd share ;P) and also still a work safe ch, just lots of talking and thinking and Sherlock doing what he does best. Deducing.

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Sherlock stares at the retreating form of his best friend and wonders how it is possible for John to take these things in his stride. He certainly would not be able, as Mycroft can attest! He presses his steepled fingers to his lips thoughtfully and accesses his mind palace. Quickly passing through the network of rooms and wings, using Baudel and Beaudouin-Lafon's gesture language for computing, Sherlock progresses to the point in time when he furtively stole John's phone to upload his tracking app.

With a sharp inhalation, the rush of adrenaline hits him, as he tries to finish before John is done in the shower. In present day 221B Sherlock puts up his hand and 'touches' the memory, slowly pushing it away from him to the left accessing all resultant information.

Like when it was active the first time, trying to find John in Dewer's Hollow (he pushes that one away from him faster to avoid touching the panic and fear attached), tracking his progression to the Diogenes Club, and knowing he was in THAT cab, perfect timing to call him from the roof.

His left hand balls into a fist on his thigh as he, seemingly without any strength, gestures with his right. It was the first thing he did upon waking up, his system still riddled with the drug, hands shaking, movement jerky. He failed to open the app three times before it worked, finding John in 221B, then following John as he _finally_ goes to the grave Sherlock should be in.

Several memories flash by till Sherlock arrives at the first time he _needed_ John while he was away. Hesitantly, hand hovering in mid air before touching it, he accesses the thought. He is instantly enveloped in an oppressive heat and the sound of children weeping. In his hand is a Heckler & Koch fully loaded and he knows he'll fire if anyone comes down the alley to see what the noise is all about. The crying is louder suddenly as the door beside him is opened and a _thing_ in the shape of a man comes out.

Thanks for standing guard Gill," Sherlock reads satisfaction in the other's face and bearing; he's not trying to hide the fact he's been enjoying himself, at all. "I know it took me longer this time, but a couple were crying so hard their poor little mouths wouldn't fit around my massive cock!" _It_ jostles Sherlock good naturedly. "Oh! What I wouldn't give to be able to help train them!" In self-defense Sherlock ignores all speech input from his ears as this _thing_ retells his evening's conquests.

He has to remember this _thing_ is a little fish. Sherlock needs to get to the bigger fish to keep John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade alive. He needs to keep the little fish alive. He can not wipe this _soulless grease stain of a human being _off the earth, no matter how much he yearns to.

John's words about caring for Moriarty's victims comes back to haunt him. He knows this is what John meant: you have to care that the children in this hovel on the pacific rim are being collected and sold as sex slaves. You have to care that they are being forced to do horrible things for their luxury of _not_ being shot like rabid dogs. Sherlock knows the bigger fish _buys_ them, and Sherlock has to cope till _he's_ in the cross hairs of Sherlock's Heckler & Koch. Then he can do as he feels he must: keep the details on this guy in his head and send it to the local authorities when he moves on.

Finally getting away Sherlock finds a place to retch, and he does, blood pounding in his ears, gut clenching over and over. He loses all the food he ate that day, and possibly a few more besides that, which hadn't been much to begin with. The world around him becomes a haze and in a desperate bid _not _to collapse there in the alley he calls up the image of John stretching his hand out toward him, just before he jumped. Touching Sherlock as readily as he could, standing at Sherlock's side.

With a grimace and a shudder he stands, pulls his mobile out and accesses the tracker. John is at home again and Sherlock sighs in relief. There had been a time in the beginning when John was staying with Lestrade, after that his mate from the army, Murray, even with Harry a couple days, till he finally went back home. A week later and he's still there, so he probably isn't packing to leave, he'd be done and gone by now. Sherlock shakes his head; the sentiment that kept John away now keeps him there. He may be critical of it, but deep in his heart Sherlock is very relieved.

In 221B Sherlock pushes his hand away again after firmly locking that room behind him. There is more there, horrible things done to keep his cover, but Sherlock doesn't want to remember them right now. 'Maybe later I can tell John about them. Empty those rooms and delete it all then.'

He keeps 'flipping' through memories; he accessed the tracker a lot while he was away, and again when he returned. But now realising the 'why' of what he did is not as important as the 'how much' he grabs up his mobile.

"I tracked you 1,094 times, 744 of those while I was 'away'. Without it, I surely would have gone mad. I'm not as strong as you John. SH"

On pins and needles he waits for a response, then.

"Right, still pissed about it. JW"

Sherlock chews on the corner of his lip for a moment.

"I can install the tracking software on your phone too. SH"

It's a long breath before the phone buzzes in his hand.

"In the morning, Ta. JW"

Sherlock sighs, feeling a lot more at ease. John would see the right of what he did, even if only through tracking Sherlock himself. He had to; everything depended on it, in order for their lives to continue in this comfortable manner Sherlock needed John to understand. He always understood, didn't he?

He always has, which is amazing in and of itself, even when out of the blue Sherlock came home, in fact waiting for John when he got home from the surgery one evening. There was shock, John dropped his take away and almost throttled him, but after a very quick exchange of questions he understood. Some memory tugs at him and Sherlock goes hunting in John's wing for that thought.

He pulls the memory of returning closer. Going through it slowly he watches himself waiting in his chair, the noise of John at the lower door and then the steps, the crunch-squish sound of the take away containers spilling when he sees Sherlock sitting there, when he cut through the kitchen to the table, the whiteness of his pallor, and the... That was it! Sherlock stops and replays that sequence at half tempo in his mind's eye.

There is an expression in John's eyes that Sherlock feels in his bones. John's tired, sure, but there is a darkness of tainted emotion poisoning him, lurking there. Endured only so long with, presumably, no outlet to be had, and yet here it sat, in his sitting room. A world shattering level of caring having been destroyed, now mending itself. Hope and love blossom, obliterating the dark poison in a flash.

In the present Sherlock is snapped out of his mind palace literally, the recoil throwing him back in his chair. Love... John loves him, and the bottomless feeling in his stomach, paired with his neurons firing at an unbelievable rate, even for him, he sees _every moment_ John has looked at him like that since. The list is _not_ short. Moreover, Sherlock senses in himself the same reactions, knows he has exhibited the same expressions from time to time.

Jumping up to shake himself out of it, Sherlock paces to the stairs and back. He glances at his watch, it's been three hours since he texted John, so four and a half since he went to bed. He needs to see John again, now!

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John leans back against his pillows contemplating the odd turn his life has taken _again_. He is livid... okay, not livid, but he acknowledges that he should be, while he's actually pleased. Being strapped to semtex and used as a puppet was _not_ what he had had in mind for that night. So the idea that Sherlock took actual steps to make sure it couldn't happen again is gratifying, even if he _knew _John would rake him over the coals for it.

With a snort John finally comes to understand why he and Sarah fell apart. Not because of Sherlock, but, because, in the back of his mind he blamed Sarah, not only, for having been on the way to see her, where Moran could nab him, but for making him leave Sherlock in the first place. Without the option of 'a bit of rough and tumble' he'd not have left the flat and not left Sherlock's side.

His phone buzzes and he jumps at the same time realising he drifted off a while back. He grabs the mobile up. Message from Sherlock at... 4AM, "Bloody hell Sherlock!" He reads and replies quickly to each one, then rolls over to sleep again. He knows it won't be a long sleep, Sherlock is having a thinking night, which usually leads to him waking John up ungodly early with some revelation or by Sherlock playing his violin.

On a case it's usually out to go dig up evidence, but John's not sure what fruit their personal discussion will bare. His mind takes that image and runs with it, so his dreams are filled with a grocer's shelves of fruit with emotions written on them in black sharpie.

In his hand he holds a pair of mangos with the words love and hope written on them when he hears a knock on the door to his room. Shaking away the strange dream he sits up, "What is it Sherlock?"

"Can I come in?" The muffled, but urgent tone coming through the door worries John a bit. Looking down at his own bare chest with a bit of embarrassment "Yeah, sure, I was asleep though."

Sherlock opens the door as soon as John says 'Yeah' and then pauses in the doorframe unsure. "Right, you're in your standard sleep pants. Not a problem." Sherlock wanders over to the chair at the foot of John's bed and sits.

John looks at him in the early morning light with only minor irritation at being woken. He can tell there is something 'off' about Sherlock, a manic energy that isn't normal, even for him. John knows he stayed up thinking, "Did you come to some clever conclusions Sher?"

John, too sleepy to notice the slip, also misses the slight widening of Sherlock's eyes at the over familiar truncation of his name, which sounded almost like the French word _cher_. Though John doesn't miss Sherlock pulling out his phone and looking pointedly toward his.

Groaning a bit, John retrieves his mobile and stretches down the bed to pass it off to Sherlock, who seems to be deducing something, staring off in the distance his eyes flicking back and forth urgently, then seizing on John's mobile greedily.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock sends the mobile a few files via bluetooth and then goes back to thinking while it loads. 'He can't have meant that, he's just too tired to speak clearly! He couldn't mean it... cher in French could mean precious, or dear... was I right? Is there love between us? But John wouldn't be so familiar with me, even with the barriers we've been breaking down lately, would he?"

A light nudge to his shoulder pulls Sherlock out of his thoughts, "Sher? It binged a few minutes ago, I think it's done doing what ever it was doing."

Sherlock stares into John's deep blue eyes, so close, seeing warmth, camaraderie, and amusement in them, Sherlock feels even more confused.

"Why are you not angry with me?" Even as it slips out Sherlock regrets it, fears John will belatedly realise he should be, get up and storm out of Sherlock's life. But that fear crashes to the ground as John snorts, "Really Sher, for you expressing, in your own genius way, that you didn't want me to ever come to harm again? No, I won't be angry with you for that. I was tempted to yank your tongue out when I realised you had that comfort while I was suffering. But on the heels of that thought I realised, even though I didn't have the person who could take that pain away, I did have all of our friends and family to lean on. You didn't, did you?"

Naked agony in his eyes as Sherlock clears his throat, "And some day I'll tell you about those dark days, but not today." He presses a couple more buttons, "Here, open the app beside your contacts and it will find me. Any time my mobile is on."

"Which is always." Mutters John, "Thank you. I'll put it to good use, you can be sure!"

Wordlessly Sherlock hands the phone back and leaves the room. John flops back against his pillows and falls blissfully back to sleep!

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John stretches in his blankets, feeling a thrum of tension through his entire body for a second, then all his muscles fall slack. He feels so well rested, so relaxed, that he is in a state of shock. Checking on his phone he realises why, it's gone half one!

With a jolt he sits up and casts about for clothes. Grabbing his suit by accident he smiles at it and decides to wear the jacket with jeans and a casual button down. After all, he has no reason to fear it now; it was purged, which is good, as it was a nice suit, and _not_ cheap. Though nowhere near what Sherlock spends on suits! 'Sher, silly Sher, has to be the epitome of fashion all the time!'

A quick shower later he's standing fairly put together in front of the fridge wondering if he even _wants_ to eat. Deciding on no he turns to put the kettle on, just to practically tread on Sherlock's toes!

"Sherlock goodness! I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

Sherlock smiles slowly, "Not an issue I assure you. Off to meet up with Sarah then?"

John gives him a wry look, "Yes... how?"

"You're wearing your jacket. So you're not sticking around here, and I know you were texting with her last night, so setting up a time to meet. I'm glad you feel able to wear it again. It really is a lovely shade," Sherlock raises his hand to lift and, god help John Watson, _caress _the lapel, "brings out your eyes something fierce."

John flickers his eyes down to Sherlock's lips, like he can not believe what Sherlock just said. Clearing his throat, John looks into Sherlock's sea foam eyes, "Erm, thank you?... I'm making a cuppa, shall I make two?"

With a "Yes please." Sherlock vanishes off to the sitting room and picks up his violin.

Shaking his head in disbelief, John quickly brews the tea while texting Sarah.

"Wow, finally up! What about you? I'm not ready for food, so either coffee or supper later? JW"

John was sitting drinking his tea when the response finally comes.

"Goodness! Where did the time go? I'm just lying about nibbling on a croissant, how about coffee in a couple hours? SS"

"OK, meet at the Farringdon street exit, Farringdon station, at 4PM? JW"

"Perfect. SS"

Smiling to himself John relaxes back into his chair listening to Sherlock play while drinking his tea. Sherlock moves into a new piece; it's a haunting, sweet, yet desolate, John finds his breath catching and his eyes stinging.

"Sherlock?! What is that, that you're playing?"

Sherlock stops mid phrase and turns to look down at John. He holds John's gaze for quite a while, staring almost aggressively at him. "It is my own rendition of Schönberg's op.6 Acht Lieder, #2 Alles. Obviously it is a song, and as such I can only play the melody, but with understanding one is able to intuit where the piano would fit in. It is a lesser work this way, but I am only one musician."

John, who took that moment to inhale slowly and blink away the prickles in his eyes, looks at the Stradivarius in Sherlock's hand. "If it's a song, it has words doesn't it?"

Sherlock takes a step back, but keeps his eyes on John, raising the Strad and bow he begins to play, speaking the words over his playing. John is powerless to keep from returning his eyes to the detective.

"Let us still await the night,

until we see all the stars.

Fold your hands; on the hard

paths through the quiet garden,

homesickness walks on tip-toes.

Goes, and fetches the anemone

which you once pressed to your heart.

Goes, surrounded by the song

of the tree from whose crown

you once plucked your first wanderlust.

And you shake from your hair

all that which is eating your soul,

blessed child, with thirty years,

you shall still experience

all that is healing."

As the last note rings to silence, John finds himself besieged by emotions he cannot control, he gulps down tea and blinks furiously trying to.

Sherlock looks away now and quickly stows his beloved violin in her case as he explains a bit more. "It was originally in German, and the poet who wrote the words that inspired Schönberg was Richard Dehmel, who was one of the prominent pre World War poets of Germany."

John's voice is bit shaky, but gaining momentum carrying on, "Right, well it certainly is a good fit for you, that piece. Excellent really." Getting to his feet quickly John heads into the kitchen and rinses his cup. After a few minutes he comes back in and walks over to Sherlock, who is now sitting looking out the window from the sofa.

"Sherlock, why don't we talk about those dark times when I get back? I think it's high time you get rid of that stuff."

Sherlock looks up at John, who is looking down at him with such a careful expression Sherlock wants to scream. Instead he just nods and then curls up on his side, facing the back of the sofa hugging his Strad. A moment later he feels the blanket that is still a bit warm from John leaning on it, draped over him. He smiles to himself as John moves away.

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Baudel and Beaudouin-Lafon's are computer scientists who developed the gestural language for interaction that the producers in Minority Report looked to as a basis for the cool stuff Tom Cruise does at work!

The term 'at half tempo' is musical in nature, it means to go half as slow. ie. 4/4 time becomes 2/4 time. Since Sherlock is a musician, it seemed a more likely turn of phrase.

And please remember Stradivarius are so rare and wonderful they are designated with the female gender, so 'she has a mellow tone' and bare a name. I don't know the name of Sherlock's Strad, but she has her own bed ;P

Anyone wants to hear the song Sherlock played, check out www. schoenberg. at. /index. php?option =com_ content&view =article& id=389& ltemid =349 &lang=en

As usual take out the spaces.

Ta Ta Now!

xxxxxPRIVATE NOTE TO THE 'GUEST' VIOLINIST who reviewed ch 13xxxxx

As hard as it may be to believe, but I meant to use the term 'half tempo' in that exact way, but NOT as you have assumed I meant. Having been a musician for 25 years (though currently taking time off to raise children) I have done this many, many times. When learning a new and difficult piece, with killer runs that are so fast there is bairly any time to produce the sound you need; one takes the passage at 'half tempo' to learn it and get a grip on the foundations of the passage. Just like Sherlock is taking apart the memory to see how it goes together in the first place.

But I thought, wait a minute, maybe I was wrong, maybe babybrain has rotted even THAT away in my head, so I asked. I asked a performing soprano, who is also a Musicologist, Uni Lecturer, organist, obo player, composer and my best mate since we were 14. She uses 'half tempo' in this way, constantly. Especially with Schönberg's 8 Lieder, yikes!


	14. What Is Going On?

Right so here we go, the de-brief. Please remember this is not mine, the characters, or places, ta. Sorry to anyone who got double updates, I forgot to add this note, so had to delete and upload again!

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John had been standing at the entrance of the tube station, for only a moment or two, when he saw the ubiquitous black jag saloon pull up. For a moment John started to get irritated, thinking Mycroft was going to try and kidnap him for a talking to. Like the one John gave him and Greg, but that thought evaporates as the door opens and a pink cheeked Sarah in a cocktail dress emerges.

John looks her up and down half appreciatively, as she moves over to him waving at the tinted windows as the car pulls away, and John's jaw falls open. He moves his mouth as if to speak, but Sarah beats him to it.

"Yes, I _know _I should have had plenty of time to go home. I just didn't get around to it!"

Coming back to himself a bit, "Well then, we had better go sit down and talk all this over, shan't we?"

"Course, but don't think I'm letting _you _off the hook, because of my developments, _you _are the one who wanted to meet today!"

With a mild grimace John gestures for her to follow him and leads the way to Prufrock again. This time John picks a table near the door so eavesdroppers would have a hard time being unnoticed. He asks Sarah what she'd like and strolls up to the counter.

Giving the order, he's surprised at the attitude he gets from the young man, but he knows Sarah likes chocolate so he orders brownies. The server glares daggers at him and John is at a loss for why. For all of about twenty seconds, as the young man's gaze flickers to Sarah and back.

John follows his look and suddenly it all becomes clear. From an outsiders perspective Sarah and him were dressed like they were out for coffee before a show, together. When John looks back the owner is there too, adding to the weight of the server's glaring. Trying hard not to bristle visibly, John clears his throat, "Not that it's any of your business, but the lady and I are mates, we're not out on a date."

Instantly the faces on the two men undergo a drastic shift. The owner turns to make John's order himself, and the young server weighs in. "I'm terribly sorry, the whole shop was a buzz with your spat last night with your.."

"Flatmate! He's _just_ my flatmate." John breaks in, talking over him. The young man looks confused, but let's it drop. When John moves to pick up the drinks, the owner gives him a look of commiseration and compliments him on his jacket. John stammers a thanks and moves as quickly as he can without spilling everything back to Sarah.

"Good _lord! _We should have gone somewhere else."

Sarah takes in his facial expression and asks, "What? Why?"

Settling into his chair and doling out the brownies and odd little drinks John grumps a bit. "Oh I was here last night when I texted you, I sort of was walking all over yesterday and stumbled in here."

"Well weren't they nice? Seems like a nice place."

Rolling his eyes, "Oh the place is nice, but the staff are a bunch of interfearing busy bodies! Sherlock found me here and as per usual everyone_ instantly _thinks we're shagging! So we got into one of our usual conversations and Sherlock stomped off."

Before Sarah can come up with a comment, "Just now when I was up there, I was getting the blood cold shoulder for bringing some one else here, _let alone a woman,_ to their little homosexual sanctuary!"

Sarah stares at him for a few seconds, frankly, shocked, then angrily, "John Hamish Watson, you take that back _right_ now!"

Looking horrified John metaphorically tugs his forelock, "God, yes, I didn't mean it, I'm just rather flustered, and not thinking straight. Forgive me?"

"Course, least thing I can do for the bloke who's making my 'walk of shame' seem like a date!"

John smirks, seeing an escape, "Is there reason for shame? And if so, how did that work out? I hope no one was bored."

Sarah, who, during this list of questions had been turning more, and more red, finally coughs to get her voice working again. "Well, in that order, oh my yes. Oddly naturally progressed out of a discussion this morning. No, no one had a chance to be bored."

"Wait a tick, this morning? What about last night, you are wearing the 'fuck me if you dare', boots."

Sarah shakes her head vehemently, "No, no, they are my, 'I'll walk all over your unfaithful ass' boots."

John seeing to the heart of it immediately regards her solemnly, "Do you think I was unfaithful with you?"

Really not wanting to tread this path, Sarah tries to skirt it gently, "No I knew you were with Sherlock when you weren't with me. They were like an insurance policy with you."

Looking in her eyes, John reads the desperate need to change the topic, "Ok, we'll talk about it another time. I actually did have a reason for wanting to talk with you today."

Relief flooding her, "You did sound a bit out of sorts in your texts yesterday. So, what's up?"

"Okay, this is all very jumbled together in my head, so you'll have to bare with me. Do you remember the conversation we had about your 'crashed' date with Greg?" John sits there, studiously moving his brownie back and forth on the plate.

"Yes, I commented on you being tense. Ready to extrapolate?"

Letting go of the brownie and sitting back a bit, John tries to look more confident that he is. "I am."

The silence at the table stretches out for a bit, then Sarah gives him a funny look, "Okay, so? You'd found an awesome new triple espresso recipe?"

John regards her confusedly, his voice echoing his expression "What?"

"I'm just trying to distract you, maybe if you don't concentrate on what you want to say, it'll come out?" Sounding worried and confused herself, Sarah tries to adopt a helpful expression.

Irritation flooding his mind, calm gentile John snaps out, "You think I'm _just_ going to tell you about having a sex dream, featuring Sherlock, let alone about the romantic bloody dinner we had last night, just because you ask an obscure quest..."

Sarah's eyes are big and round, John's face is drained of all colour, and he slumps back in his chair. "I'm terribly sorry Sarah, you seem to have been right. Oh god what is _happening_ to me?" Covering his face with his hands John feels like he's falling, thousands of feet instantly, moaning a bit he pitches forward to rest his head between his knees so he can breath without passing out.

He's never said it out loud, he'd stomped on the memory of the dream _hard_, and he'd mostly forgotten about it. The world around him greys out for a second and John thinks, 'Great I'm going to _faint_, like a ponce, because I've just realised, I have a more than passing fancy for my flatmate, that's just _grand_.' He briefly registers Sarah's comforting hand rubbing circles on his back, and a murmur of someone asking if he's alright.

'Bollocks to alright,' John thinks bitterly, 'I'm apparently thicker than a castle wall! How did it not register? For crying out loud he'd had a full on, penetrative sex, day dream, _about _Sherlock, _with Sherlock _in the_ room!'_

John carefully sits up, painstakingly watching, as the room spins around him a couple turns. "Oh, bollocks Sarah, there's so much going on in my brain it's sickening."

"Well, why don't you start at the beginning?"

Cautious of who's about now, John tries to calm down, after all, he did spit the worst of it out already. Seeing no one hovering he tries to get the rest out, before it all goes pear shaped.

"Right, so it all started the day Sherlock told me he'd be going mostly unclothed for the dinner." Ignoring the look that said she wanted clarification, John goes on; he assumes he'd answer her question as he goes anyway.

"He said he made sure I was playing the Sultan, because he couldn't bear it to be anyone else if he'd be 'most likely not have much kit on.' _and _being 'on his knees most the time'! And then he said we have to _practice_ because it would be horribly embarrassing. Which is bloody well correct, but _seriously_, practice? I was already embarrassed, so I stormed off to bed before 8PM!"

Pausing John wipes his hand over his face and shifts his stare to the edge of the table. "And when I went to bed," John pauses, having a hard time getting the words out. "Oh, lord! I had this crazy dream about 'tides', where half way through, I realised the hand job I'm getting was from Sherlock, and as I was about to do something, to my shock the hand job turned into a blow job! It was over in moments and I woke up to soiled pants! Soiled pants Sarah! I haven't soiled pants since I was 15!"

Sarah's eyes defy physics and biology both, getting bigger! She cautiously takes a sip of her gibraltar feeling John may have more to say.

"So how does this wild ride continue? Bet you can't guess! The first time we practice, I spend a few hours with a fidgety Holmes and as soon as he's hit the showers I'm wanking. I thought it was just because I was a bit tipsy and my mental eye confused vast tracts of Sherlock's pale alabaster skin with a woman's. Oh NO! Let's skip forward shall we? Things are getting better, Sherlock gets good at acting like furniture on the floor by my feet and I succeed in not thinking about my increased libido."

"Then there's what happened Friday night. It's unbelievable. We were 'practicing' and Sherlock was being quiet, and calm, very un-Sherlock. Suddenly he's arbitrarily decided we've reached the end of our trial and he's about to celebrate. But all I can think of is shoving him down on our table, ripping his trunks down and just ram... I think you get the picture."

Sarah, who's face is flame red, manages to squeak out, "What did you mean about 'a romantic dinner'?"

John sighs, "When I was texting you, he was following me. So when he catches up we talk, and he storms off, only to text me with directions to Peid a Terre. I can't even afford to use their toilets and the daft bugger decides, on a whim, eat there. We had a private bar, private dinner, with 10 courses, and our own staff. It was bloody insane!"

Sarah clears her throat, "Erm, and romantic?"

John glares at her with no heat, "Yes, it was. I've never had a more secluded, focused date _ever_, and to Sherlock it was nothing. Just a night out with his _blogger_ because Mycroft _couldn't _ be there." Then he looks down at what was his brownie, it lies on his plate in several chunks, half squashed. For some reason his vision blurs and seems to swim; John realises he's crying, but doesn't know why.

Sarah looks around, catching the owner looking in their direction she smiles hesitantly at him while shifting her chair closer to John, who is coming apart. She gently wraps an arm around his shoulders and quietly waits for John to gather himself.

Suddenly she realises where she's seen John's jacket before, it's from the suit she helped him pick out for Sherlock's funeral. 'Oh yes, the funeral he didn't go to.' She turns her head and looks at her friend's face as he struggles, his features twisting, trying to force himself under control.

A thought long ago made a home behind her eyes, that John and Sherlock were an item, now it grows and blooms. John has deep feelings for Sherlock, that was clear from his reaction to Sherlock's 'death', but he also believes Sherlock does not reciprocate these feelings. She suddenly feels a sinking sick feeling in her stomach, that's it! John thinks Sherlock doesn't love him!

"John, does Sherlock know how you feel?" Sarah tries to speak gently, not to shock John, to make him go back into himself.

The pained, anguished look this comment elicits cuts Sarah to her very soul. The answer is clear, no Sherlock does not know and John is scared to death to tell him.

"Oh John. I'm so, so sorry."

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	15. Catch Us Up!

Right so these little snippets are to catch up and touch base with all the characters before the BIG NIGHT!

As usual, these people don't belong to me. Don't forget, *****THIS IS SLASH PEOPLE, BOYS WITH BOYS, DON'T LIKE? DON'T READ*****

*notes to follow*

Catch Us Up!

Mrs. Hudson smiles at the young man working the counter at Speedy's and quickly scans for Mrs. Turner. Not seeing her, she pops back out, shifting the package to a more comfortable position, and knocks on Mrs. Turner's door.

"Martha! Lovely to see you. Come in, you all right?"

Mrs. Hudson follows her neighbour into the kitchen and sets her burden down on the table. "All right? Marie, I brought over your jewelry, the young man brought your boxes with mine this morning."

Mrs. Turner looks at the glossy black boxes, "Oh goody, shall we have a look see?" And sets about opening the one on top. Inside are ropes of semi-precious gem stones attached to a knotted cord belt. As well as bracelets, a golden arm band, and an incredible headdress set with the same stones and tiny dangling charm bell beads, the whole thing made of gold. There's also a necklace which has nine neat carnelians arranged in a wide filagree band in a smaller box.

She sits heavily down in her chair, "Martha! That's a _lot_ of shiny gold and jewels!"

Mrs. Hudson looks through the biggest box finally coming up with a slip of heavy card. "Look here Marie, this tells you what each is, and what it's for, and when it has to be returned by." Reading the list quickly she hastens to comfort her friend.

"Now Marie, there isn't anything too seriously expensive in here, mostly just semi-precious stones, and it's only on loan."

Mrs. Turner is looking at the ropes of stones, lifting up one with dark blue stones flecked with bright yellow, she turns to Mrs. Hudson. "What's this one, it looks like little balls of starry night sky."

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson reads off the card, "that's lapis lazuli, one of the most prized stones in the ancient world." then she paws about in the boxes, noting the amount of lapis lazuli outweighed the other stones. "Your character must be fairly important, did you pull the older sibling card?"

Smiling Mrs. Turner picks up the headdress and gazes at it adoringly, "I did, yes. Oh, Martha, isn't this lovely?"

"Yes dear," consulting the card again, "it's mostly different kinds of agate on that one, but I think that'll go with your hair better than the blue." Smirking and giggling a bit Mrs. Hudson continues, "And at our time of life anything that brings out the blue tint to one's hair is a mistake, isn't it!"

"Oh you!" waving away the comment Mrs. Turner puts everything back in the boxes. "So are we going to be getting together before the car comes to get us Friday? Cuppa and help each other get ready? I'm still unsure about the make-up tips the taylor's assistant was going on about, you seemed to get it more than I did."

"Sounds brilliant, how about my place at 2PM, then we'll be ready for Mycroft's car at 4:30."

"Sounds good, now about the new boy working next door, did you see..."

And the ladies start a good old fashioned gab fest that lasts all afternoon.

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Grumbling under his breath Sean Anderson picks up a file folder as an excuse and strides purposefully toward Lestrade's office.

Pausing to knock, he pushes the door open without waiting and closes it behind him.

Lestrade, with his coffee half way to his mouth, takes in the forensic scientists expression then lowers the cup. Really he'd been waiting for this conversation all week!

"Yes Anderson, what can I do for you?" looks pointedly at the folder in his hands, "Question about a case maybe?"

Anderson snorts, "Hardly, I got my 'costume' this morning for this farce Friday, and I'm..."

Lestrade interrupts him with a curt, "It's a bloody dress, no you aren't the only one, it's what the men of that time period and location wore. Yes I have one too, if you look in the box there's loose billowy trousers in there underneath."

"What about the jewelry and the bloody make-up?!" Anderson salvos back.

"Look if you want I'll show you how to put it on after we pick you up."

Looking a bit taken back, "You know how..." Anderson trails off glancing to the door and back, and he visibly gears up for a second go. "Right, so you have to wear the get up too. Your not going to skip wearing the dress and catch me out in a prank are you?"

Lestrade groans silently as he searches himself for the strength to deal with this. "Look, if you ask me, which you are, of all the people going, you don't have anything to be embarrassed about."

"Ha!" Anderson barks out, "you don't think Sherlock has made sure there will be things embarrassing me?"

"Well, frankly the fact that he's in a more vulnerable situation than you, and that's all I'll say about him, lays claim to the opposite. But he's not the only one, I for one am not really reveling in you and Donovan having a look see into my private life. You don't see me freaking out about it now do you?"

"Why would _that_ matter, single bloke like you has no worries."

Lestrade gazes at him searchingly, then, "Right, get out. Wear the kit, be ready when we pick you up, and get out of my sight unless you have _actual_ police business to discuss."

A cowed Anderson heads off with a, "Course sir."

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Sally Donovan looks at the boxes again, the big one has the costume and the smaller ones have the jewelry. Shaking her head at the madness of it all she starts undressing, be-damned with the whole situation, she was going to figure out how to wear these clothes.

Setting the boxes from the jeweler to the side she slides out the delicate cotton with silk trim. She's momentarily confused by how it is supposed to go on, but then she realises she has it folded in half.

Calling herself all kinds of fool she opens it all the way and drapes it over her shoulders. It pools in the nape a bit, like a hood, and Sally realises its meant to go up over her head and attach to a veil. Shifting it up and folding the edges across her chest she sees the bottom edges trailing.

Confused she looks into the box again, noticing, for the first time, more material and a thick sheet of card. Flipping the card over she sees a diagram for the wrap. She had been so close to getting it! 'So you take the trailing edges, you loop them back towards you, tie the ends together, twist the whole thing once and pop it over your head the weight of the rest of the material holds the twist in place, which holds everything in place! Neat.'

Second time she gets it right, noting that the cotton is _very_ thin and fairly bright turquoise, trimmed in a dark blue silk with silver edges. 'Time to see what else is in that box, cause' looking down at her black bra and pants virtually glaring out at her, 'that just isn't working for me.'

She looks through the box, finding the card, an odd pair of cotton pants, a long wrap, trousers of a sort in the same cotton, but a darker turquoise than the top. There is also a simple shirt in white.

Picking up the card again she looks it over carefully, everything is pretty much as she thought, with the exception of the wrap. Which, it is noted, as being necessary to subdue her breasts, if she really thinks they need it. Something that wouldn't have been worn in the First Persian Empire.

Laughing to herself over the cheek of a _man_ telling her she didn't need a bra, Sally shimmies into the whole thing, looking in the mirror she has to admit it looks good, if a smidge see through.

Giggling to herself she opens the jewelry boxes and pulls out an impressive array of silver adornments. Some clearly part of the headdress, covered in all sorts of tiny dangling agate stones and charm bell beads. She is surprised by the fact that the veil only covers her nose and mouth. It's such a thin gauze that it's completely transparent and is an even lighter turquoise, almost white really.

There's also a cord belt with silver attachments and more agate, Sally shakes her head in bemusement, the card clearly says it's all agate, but it's all so different. The one thing that's common among them is the lairs or spots or flecks, in every colour.

Looking into the last box she finds a 'dragon skin' agate armband also in silver, as well some bracelets of filigree with more of the agate. There are also some larger stones on simple silver chains, 'For my hair maybe?' and even a bejeweled combs to hold her hair back.

'Huh, I really don't know what to do with these. Guess I'll invite my mates round, do some googling on ancient Persia and see what kind of up-do can go with this completely mad dinner.' Smiling at the picture this outfit makes she starts texting Lilly. 'Maybe this won't be so bad.'

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Frasier Dimmock looks at his girlfriend from his vantage point above her, as Lilly lay on the carpet gasping and giggling. Rolling his eyes in mild irritation he strides over to his chair and sits down, or tries to.

Another peal of laughter rings out as Frasier gets caught up in the fact that he has a blade strapped to his waist, and it sticks into the chair awkwardly keeping him out of his spot. Grumbling and cursing about the 'pig sticker' he stands up again.

Lilly calms her giggling long enough to say, "It's a 'kopis' love." More tittering, "Didn't you read the card?" Adjusting his scabbard and scale shirt he tries to flop down in disgust again.

"And when exactly did you become the specialist on the matter my dear?"

Beginning to show signs of stopping with the giggles soon Lilly sits up against the sofa, "Well I helped Sally with her hair and things last night, so I have a bit of an idea. I'm terribly sorry I laughed, it was you muttering and cursing in the loo, and then the thump and clanging about that did it, it was just all so surreal."

Mollified a bit, "Yeah, I know I look a sight don't I?"

Lilly pulls herself up with a serious look on her face, "No, love, you look very handsome and sexy. I can't wait to get the rest of your kit on."

Blinking at her in a mildly confused and worried manner, "But this is the lot."

Lilly smiles widely again, "I'll just help you get ready Friday, shall I?"

As if the whole thing wasn't odd enough, what with Sherlock turning up at his office and saying he'd better come or Sherlock would never solve a crime for him again, now Lilly seemed to know more than him. Which wasn't a stretch actually, he was more than a bit worried about what that meant. 'Oh well, I'll find out Friday, won't I?'

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Sarah was walking along Great Smith Street in a bit of a hurry, she was thinking about calling Greg to see if they all could hook up that night, to make the party bearable the next night.

The three of them had gone to a nice place for dinner Tuesday, but Greg was called away half way through for a murder case, and Sarah went home soon after. Now everyone is suffering a bit from sexual tension.

Both her and Mycroft knew it would have been wrong to spend too much time together without Greg. They finished dinner and then said goodnight.

She was intently trying to find her phone when she walked right into someone who squeaked. Spotting a familiar face, Sarah smiles and offers a subdued, "Molly? Is it? It is Molly, right? I'm sorry I ran into you! Are you alright?"

The Molly in question, in her track bottoms and a sporty jumper smiles, "Oh I'm fine... uh, it was Sam?"

The woman standing beside Molly, also in sports gear, breaks in with, "No, Sarah."

Sarah, having been about to say that, snaps her mouth shut. Sounding maybe a touch aggressive, "Right. Sarah, and who are you?"

The beautiful brunette smiles at Sarah, "I'm Anthea," and the penny drops, she was at the cafe! "Mycroft's PA," She reaches out with the hand not holding her carryall, Sarah bemusedly does the same. "We met at Dose, well I brought over some coffee and cake, but I think you were a bit distracted."

Her face going red instantly, Sara smiles back, "Yes, I remember, you were wearing a beautiful maxi dress. So? what are you two doing tonight?"

Molly looks awkwardly towards the pavement, indecision clear on her face. Anthea makes an irritated sound, "We had to do some background prep for the party. And since we have the same 'job', Sherlock put us in contact."

Molly jumps in, "And as it were, Anthea has been taking a class in... our 'job', so I joined the class."

Anthea nods a bit, "Yeah, our teacher is going to be coming as background for us with a couple of her mates. I think it's going to make the evening a hell of a lot of fun!"

Kind of confused Sarah smiles widely, "Great, then I'll see you tomorrow?"

From both the women heading into the Abbey Community Center, "Yeah, see you then!"

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John steps out of the shower and reaches for his towel, drying his hair absently he wipes the mirror clear so he can see. Pausing with the towel lying on his shoulders John looks critically at himself. His hand is a bit cool from wiping the mirror off, so it makes his hair stand up a bit as he strokes down his breast bone.

'It's not like I'm muscle bound.' He scrutinises his broad shoulders, the scarred one a tiny bit less muscular, but that's all. 'Just solidly built I think.' He has a deep heavily muscled chest, and although he has lost the sharp definition of his abdomen, at least running after Sherlock all these years has kept him trim!

As for his wedding tackle, John actually cracks a smile at himself in the mirror, 'God made up for my lack of hight there, for sure.'

Quickly he rubs the most of the water off and grabs up his robe. Briefly he thinks wistfully of his old stripped robe, but it, sadly, did not survive Sherlock being gone. Pushing that memory away, he slips into the robe and knots it loosely.

"Sherlock?" He calls out as he strides toward the kitchen, "I'm making tea, would you like some?" A sudden voice right beside him makes John jump.

"It's already made, Mrs. Hudson let Mycroft in so she made us tea as an appology."

John looks at Sherlock for a long moment, then noting the back of Mycroft's head in his chair, he looks to the table. On which is a tray with tea and cakes for three, "Right." reflexively John's hands go to his sash and tighten it, making sure his chest is now covered up. "I'll just dash up stairs and get dressed, shall I?"

Not waiting for comment he brushes past Sherlock and hastens up to his room.

Sherlock wanders over to his chair and drops in it like a stone.

Mycroft watches him for a few moments, and then a small smile plays on his lips. "Oh my dear little brother, what _is_ at work here in 221B Baker street?"

Sherlock's head surges up from his contemplation of the carpet, his eyes narrowing threateningly. "What ever you think is going on, your wrong."

Looking horribly smug, "Oh really? Then explain why the whole time John was in the shower you were distracted and a bit jumpy. As soon as the shower cut out you drifted off, I'd say you were in your mind palace, but you seemed too... fluid. You weren't sorting, or deleting, you were thinking about him."

"Don't get me started on how your heart rate trebled when he came out, his chest on display, the robe not quite closed. I'm sure you could have seen anything you chose to before he closed it properly. So don't say nothing is going on."

Sherlock stubbornly stays quiet. Mycroft's expression becomes a bit worried.

"Look, I'm the first person to say that emotions are tricky, and not always rewarding," He gestures Sherlock to wait when he sees that quick mind stir up a response, "But! The reward you get for making yourself this vulnerable _is_ worth it."

Standing Mycroft shoots his cuffs and scoops up his umbrella, as he steps out the door he calls over his shoulder, "And your vulnerable already Sherlock, make no mistake about that."

What seems like seconds later John is beside him with a cup, "Here Sherlock, drink up before it goes cold, would you. You need to eat tonight remember, you probably be 'killed' before the dinner is in full swing tomorrow."

Sherlock blinks, takes the cup and swallows down the over sweet milky tea, just the way he likes it. Carefully he watches John, out of the corner of his eyes, move around getting dinner on for them. John, the enigma wrapped up in a puzzle, Sherlock's massive intellect is brought resoundingly to his knees by the unassuming ex-army doctor puttering about in their kitchen.

Feeling just a wee bit ill, the though comes unbidden, 'Vulnerable indeed.'

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NOTES:

Filigree work is the name given to very fine metal wires which were soldered on metal objects in delicate designs.

I gave Anderson a first name, Sean is just another form of the name John, which is the actor's first name.

If you don't google any of the stones, you MUST google the 'dragon skin' agate. It's too cool to miss.

I gave Dimmock a first name, (I just liked how they fit!) AND a girlfriend who is friends with Donovan. I can see Sally bringing a mate to a Yarder's night at the pub and Dimmock pulling her, can't you. He looks like he needs cuddles. Looks like 12 beside Sherlock (22) and John (30). Or is that cause Martin's three years older than me and I'm feeling hopefull about how I look? ;P

Kopis is an ancient sword from Greece which describes a heavy single edged blade with a forward-curve that the Persian soldiers adapted after battles such as Thermopylea.

That's it, still something bugging you, PM me, I'll try to sort you out.

Cheers


	16. Get The Show On The Road

Sherlock paces in his room at the manner, like John he decided to go out to the house early and get into his costume there. Now it comes down to it though, Sherlock isn't sure he can do it. He glares at the small lump of mediterranean blue silk so thin Sherlock swears he can read through it! In irritation he paws through the slippery stuff to find the pouch, it's rough/soft black material scratches Sherlock's fingers, and he pulls it out of the pile.

He looks closely at it and hears in his ear the calm measured comments from the tailor

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"Mr. Holmes, I know, you know absolutely everything about me and my life, but let me tell you this. I have it on good authority that a 'privacy pouch' is best applied to an awakened member, and you should constrain it once it is 'roused' to keep it thus."

Sherlock looks at the man closely, seeing by the way he stands, and the position of his body that he's trying to distract Sherlock from one of the young men. Upon closer inspection of this man Sherlock realises he's extremely fit and a bit insecure.

"How long has the young man been working here instead of working at the 'Adonis Cabaret'?"

The tailor smirks, "A week, which makes me very right Mr. Holmes."

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Looking at the scrap of material with newfound loathing Sherlock closes his eyes and tries to will himself erect. It doesn't work.

He tries thinking about John on his bed, which works for a second or two, but then he imagines Mrs. Hudson seeing him in the pouch and it all goes west!

Irritated beyond reason Sherlock does what Sherlock always does. He grabs his phone and texts John.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

In a room across the hall John is pulling on the white silk close fitted trousers, when his phone's text alert goes off. Hoping over, his legs tangled, he grabs at the phone seeing instantly it's from Sherlock. John reefs up his trousers and flops on the edge of the bed to read the message.

"John, how am I supposed to obtain an erection? As my doctor you should know. SH"

Struggling through hysterical blindness, John has dropped his phone and is now sitting of the floor beside where the phone landed. With shaking hands his picks up the phone and texts a response.

"Why the bloody hell do you need to know _that. NOW? _JW_"_

Only a moment later, fervently wishing this wasn't happening again, his text alert chimes.

"I need to wear a 'privacy pouch' and someone working in a similar business, in 'the know' about these things, told me it's easier to wear erect. SH"

John stares at those words feeling a tingling sensation in his face and fingers. He realises his heart rate has gone wild, and he can't control his breathing. Suddenly the phone slips from numb nerveless fingers as John feels a free falling sensation. His last thought is 'Right _that's_ vasovagal syncope fainting*.'

He comes to, his head spinning and painful, roaring of blood in his ears, he hears a knocking at his door. "John? Alright? I heard a thump."

Looking around John realises he rammed the bedside table into the wall slumping against it in his faint. Swallowing to get his throat working he calls unevenly out to Sherlock, "It's alright, I shoved the table against the wall."

Closing his eyes John prays Sherlock goes back to his room now.

He's not so lucky.

In a low warning tone that makes John's body shudder, "John, you sound as though you lost consciousness, I'm coming in to see if your alright."

John's eyes widen as the door handle turns, "Sherlock _NO!_ All I have on is..." trailing off as the door opens wide. Sherlock takes one look at him and strides over to pull him back upright.

"Slowly Sher, I don't want to faint again."

Sherlock arches an eyebrow at the name, let alone the admission that he fainted and maneuvers John onto the bed. "Well at least you were already close to the floor when you fainted. Really John, did you eat anything today? That's my role not yours..." Sherlock stops talking as two things become clear to him at the same time.

One: John is flushing bright red, alluding to the idea that his faint was not caused by food. Given the way he's doing anything to avoid Sherlock's scrutiny it must have to do with Sherlock.

Two: John is wearing _only_ a pair of white, close fitting, single layer, silk trousers that almost resemble hose, rather than trousers. Every muscle swell and ridge is clear, including his massive cock, which seems to be twitching and filling under Sherlock's rapt attention.

Feeling like someone had poured heat through his body, flooding his abdomen, Sherlock closes his eyes reveling in the feeling a moment, then he turns back to the door.

John watches this, and is swamped in shame, so he tries to get himself under control. 'Come _on_ Watson, you've disgusted Sherlock so much he can't look at you! What the hell are you doing?' One last attempt at pushing past this weirdness to the normal way they talk John thinks back to the text. 'Shit!' the throbbing in his groin increases as he thinks about Sherlock getting erect.

"Erm, Sherlock? I think it would be less embarrassing for both of us if you're just, just normal you in the costume."

Looking at the door Sherlock's hand drifts down to rub at his semi, "Are you trying to intimate you don't want me marching about all night erect?"

Desperately John tries thinking of disgusting things. Like the head in the fridge, 'Nope, leads directly to Sherlock' and his cock jumps. Franticly he bites his lip, too late he realises the error in doing that and a tiny moan escapes.

Upon hearing the sensual sound Sherlock spins back around, his discomfort doubling, as he takes in the sight of John chewing on his lower lip, his eyes shut, his face screwed up tight, hands gripping the duvet under him. Sherlock's observation continues along John's frame, lightning quick. Sherlock's breath shudders to a stop as he see's John's nipples go taught and his cock, well into swelling to it's massive girth, twitching upwards.

His eyes fly back to John's face, where those lapis eyes are just snapping open. They are laden with lust and fear, Sherlock can not frighten John, it is not allowable! With one last lingering look he leaves with a, "Well, alright. We're running out of time so I'll just go get ready." tossed casually over his shoulder.

John lies there a moment trying to understand what just happened. One moment Sherlock's expression was spilling over with lust, as his gaze raked up and down John's body. So explicitly that John could almost _feel_ those long slender fingers on his skin.

Then suddenly disbelief, then resolve, masks Sherlock's visage and he goes AWOL.

John doesn't know what to think of this, and his mind is not on sorting out why Sherlock would change his mind. His brain flooded with the images of Sherlock, especially just now, when he was feasting his eyes on John's body. Admitting defeat, John slides his hand down to press hard on his cock through the silk trousers. 'Oh this isn't going to take long!'

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Out in the hall, hesitation freezing Sherlock in his own doorway, he wonders if he should just turn around and go back into John's room and tell him he wants to have sex.

A libidinous, loud, drawn out moan reaches Sherlock's ears. He whirls around to stare in open mouthed shock at John's door. Another moan, this one frankly obscene, is clear through the closed door, and Sherlock can't resist moving to open the door.

That stubbornly curious, the immutable part of Sherlock's brain, has the door open a crack before he can blink. And when he rears back, trying not to look at his friend stroking himself off _again, _his brain whispers, 'You've watched before, at least this time you were just in the room, he knows you are about.'

Closing his eyes in frustration he leans against the frame and presses his eye up to the crack he's allowed so he can see every movement of John's hand, over, then under the silk.

Chewing on his tongue he watches John quickly come to climax, and almost jerks the door open at the quiet sound that may, or may not, have been John moaning 'Sher' as he rode out his climax. Shaking his head like a wet dog, to force the thoughts away, he turns back to his room. Walking awkwardly around his bulging trousers, he looks down to realise he doesn't need to worry about getting erect any more, that's sorted!

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Sherlock looks in the mirror, the black silk ribbon of the pouch is visible over the hem of his mediterranean blue 'trousers'. The pouch itself is also visible through the material, which is very transparent and the pouch is black.

The trousers consist of two pleated, virtually transparent, rectangles of material calf length. They are each slit from the bottom up, almost all the way through the centre of the rectangle to create the two legs. Each leg is sewn together at the waist, crotch, and the bottom of the leg. On the inside of the leg it's just overlapped and Sherlock glares at this realising that when he kneels there will be a corresponding stripe of exposed flesh down his inner thigh, as well as the outside. He fingers the loose flapping edge on the outside that exposes him from his hips all the way down to his calves, his sensitive fingertips feeling the silver and gold threads creating the pattern on the edge.

Sighing to himself he opens the first box from Garrard and finds a gold and silver filagree belt, 5" wide with ropes and ropes of lapis lazuli, and carnelian stones looped along the bottom and top edges and hanging down. Picking it up he loops it around his waist and secures it. He also finds earrings with carnelians in, and arm bands with lapis, and in the last box he finds the most amazing thing.

It is a pectoral-saka* fashioned after an ancient Iranian queen's. There are four successively longer 'ropes' of gold, the first lying close around Sherlock's neck. The successive 'ropes' lying against his chest, each a bit thicker than the one before it. And in the spaces in between each rope there are figures in solid gold.

In between the first and second there are various figures, herdsmen, and horses. As well as a representation of the sultan and the harem boy dinning at his table in the center. Between the second and third 'rope' is a solid backed scrolling organic pattern of flowers. And in between the last two are the winged lions of the Persian Kings attacking their prey, some dear-like animals, as well as regular lions attacking boars.

At either end lion heads have all the ends of the 'ropes' in their mouths holding on tight. Narrowing his eyes angrily he scoops up his phone from the cabinet.

"Very funny, what could you possibly be trying to intimate Brother. SH"

Moments later there is a knock at the door, which Sherlock opens to find Anthea in a belly dancer's costume.

"Here to do Mycroft's dirty work?"

She smirks,"No, here to make sure you put on your pretties and coal your eyes. Well eyebrows too, as well as a touch of colour to your lips."

"Oh GOD! I am going to look like a rent boy." slumping down on the edge of his bed, he pouts.

Anthea grabs the point of his chin and starts deftly edging his eyes with the coal. "Well that makes all the sense in the world Sherlock, as you are a harem boy tonight! And quite the pretty one at that!"

Grumpily he allows her to highlight his features. When she's done he looks in the mirror and is caught by his own eyes, the extension of the eyebrow and outlining of the eye gives an almost egyptian look to his features and his lips, already ridiculously lush for a man seem larger, just by virtue of darkening the colour a tiny bit.

Anthea wordlessly leaves him to his examination as she dusts his chest with a fine gold dust, making it look as though the gold is dripping from the centre of the saka down towards his navel. She smirks at him and pulls a sapphire out of a box and a bottle of spirit gum.

Sherlock looks at the objects in her hands and groans again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

John finishes straightening, god help him, his crown and looks at his over all appearance. He is wearing his form fitting, thin, white silk trousers, and slippers. The tunic is comprised of two large squares of material that are sewn together on three sides with 20" gaps for his hands and head to peek out. The material is dark purple shot through with gold, and a scrolling organic design all along the edges of the sleeves, neck and hem.

The garment is gathered in by a 4" wide belt of plates out of solid gold set with large cabochon cut carnelians, lapis lazuli, turquoise and various agates. With various ropes of these stones, hanging from his belt and wrists. Around his neck he wears a pectoral-saka that is just a broad single two to three inch wide band that hangs off his collar bones and swoops nicely down so the large hunk of agate, on which is a carving of a falcon and mounted on a gold plate, hangs in the center of his chest. The dark purple of the robe sets of the contrasting colours of the agate*, making the raptor stand out vividly.

In a small corner of his mind John is fussed about wearing a dress! But as far as he consciously is concerned, the actual problem he has with this outfit, is the bloody CROWN.

As a man who served (would still be serving, if for a sniper round to the shoulder, ta very much!) for Queen and country, wearing regalia feels wrong to John Watson.

He takes it off and stares at the detail in the central sunburst, flanked by rearing winged lions, surrounded by the plants and moon. It was really lovely, if unnerving! Sighing he puts it down and picks up the coal and lines his eyes carefully smudging it, elongating the corners and the ends of his eyebrows. Frowning he tries to blend the dark coal with his own medium brown eyebrows. The end effect is dark,n foreboding eyes.

Feeling the fool for his earlier reactions John dons the crown and heads to Sherlock's room. Given the practice they've been up to John doesn't hesitate to open the door and just walk in, but he's shocked and confused by the sight that greets him.

On the bed Sherlock is reclining, his coal lined eyes, 'Spectacular!' John can't help thinking to himself. Sherlock is staring at the ceiling, a bored expression on his face. Anthea, John realises when she looks over her shoulder, is blocking his view of her hands, but given the territory they're hovering over, John jumps to all sorts of very wrong conclusions. His eyes narrow and his face heats as he tries to ignore what he thinks is happening.

In a peeved tone he chivies Sherlock, "Are you done yet?"

Sherlock's head whips around and he glares at John. Who feels like he's fainting again as he's pinned by the bright cutting ice of his flatmate's eyes, then the expression in those devastating eyes alters, there's bemused irritation there. John is vaguely aware that Sherlock's painted, 'Oh god look at them!' lips are moving.

"What was that Sherlock?" turning away again John is aware of the frustration in Sherlock's voice.

"I said, John, that I'm not quite ready. Anthea is just applying some final adornments and I'll be ready, shouldn't be too long if you wish to wait."

Turning away from the pair on the bed, his cheeks getting unbelievably hotter, John clears his suddenly unresponsive throat. "If your sure I'm not disturbing either of you."

Anthea gives him that wonderful smile of hers, "Really John, I'm done, he just has to stay still and not touch it. If you could make sure of that, then I can go help Molly with hers."

A bit confused, never the less John nods, "Sure."

So Anthea scoops up a few things and rushes off without another word.

Looking after Mycroft's PA, he wanders closer to Sherlock with out paying attention. "So, wh..." John breaks off in the middle of the word as he's confronted with the vision of Sherlock reclining on the bed.

'Oh.' John stares wide eyed at his best friend laid out like a banquet. He feels the blood draining from his face as he takes in Sherlock's long legs encased in silk so thin he can see right through it. Swallowing compulsively his eyes flit back and forth taking in things randomly, the jewelry covering each limb, the gold and silver edging to the silk and the massive gold piece laying on his chest. Inhaling suddenly, realising he was holding his breath, John notices the gold dust, and how it makes the eye draw down his long torso to... John blinks rapidly to dispel the image in front of him, but it remains the same.

Nestled in Sherlock's belly button is a large sapphire with gold paint and dust accenting the skin around it. John feels a bit over warm and is glad of the tunic 'dress' he's wearing.

'My god I just tossed off half an hour ago, how is it possible I'm struggling not to embarrass myself? I'm over 40!'

Reflexively Sherlock arches, turning his face away from the shocked expression of his John. This small movement draws John's eyes down to the pouch hardly obscured by the mediterranean blue silk. He gasps quietly as the heat rushes to his face, and more insistently to his groin. 'Looks like he got it to fit despite not being hard.' and with _that_ thought John has to shift his stance to give _things _more room in his pants.

At this quiet sound Sherlock looks round and takes in the glitter of combustable lust in John's eyes, his brain stutters to a stop. Sherlock blinks slowly and tries to deduce John, but the shock is wearing on him, and he gets distracted by John beginning to speak.

"What is drying Sher?" The expression takes on a proprietary cast as John speaks, and Sherlock's brain is set in a tail-spinning free fall. 'What is he possessive of?' Out loud he fairly calmly says, "The sapphire, I have to let the gum set, and she didn't trust me to sit still."

John gaining some composure, snorts, "I wonder why she would think that, Sher! You've got, I'd guess, 25 carats of sapphire stuck to your skin. It's probably worth several thousand pounds, so I'm not surprised!"

Waving his concern away with a hand, Sherlock shakes his head, "No, it's set in a set of disks that the jewel sits in and the skin of my belly button fits in between the two ridges the disks form. Like those plugs people who stretch their ears use, only not as deep. The spirit gum is just a precaution as it's, like you said, worth several thousand pounds."

"Bloody hell, Mycroft has gone a bit mad on all this, hasn't he?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Yes, well our family has _always _used Garrard for any jewelry needs we may have. In fact a 'Holmes' bankrolled the foundation of the company when It was founded in 1722. That's the reason the royal family started ordering commissions from them."

"So what your saying is that because of your illustrious ancestors the oldest jewelers in the world got a permanent contract with the royal family?"

"Yes, exactly John, well done you."

No longer feeling his earlier problem as badly from irritation, John stares at Sherlock awaiting further explanation.

Seeing this Sherlock sighs, "And because of that, as well as several centuries custom, Mycroft approached them about doing some ancient designs. They snapped up the idea and have been putting the apprentices through some training with these pieces, as they are quite fiddly. All of the jewels and metals will be given back and melted down for reuse. Mycroft only paid for the master's time, so not all that much."

John shakes his head in wonder, "Only your brother would think of something like this!"

Sherlock smiles, "Yes Lestrade has made him quite decadent, hasn't he?"

John laughs at that outright, "Yeah, yeah. Come on then, time to get this show on the road!"

Sherlock groans and slowly levers himself up, "Why did I agree to be dead again?"

As they wander down the hallway to the stairs John says, laughter clear in his voice, "Because you love Mrs. Hudson Sher."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

* **vasovagal syncope fainting**: Fainting can occur when an external experience or circumstance triggers a temporary malfunction in your autonomic nervous system. A sudden intense episode of stress, emotional upset, fear or anxiety is an example of this.

* **Pectoral-saka**: is a type of torc that is open at the back and much bigger. It hangs off the collar bones and onto the breast as apposed to being close to the neck. They cover a good portion of the upper torso. Think of the giant bands of jewels and gold Egyptian rulers wore, those are also pectorals. The word Saka is the tribal name of the people this particular pectoral comes from.

*** ancient agate carving**: artisans would use the layer effect of agate to create fore and backgrounds on their pieces, like is more contemporarily done with cameos. This link has a good example + explanation: _ _materials/_galleries/_venus._html

It may also become apparent, though I probably should have put this in the last chapter notes, that I'm not being 100% historically accurate here, so I'll point out all my flaws now.

This dinner is set in around 500BC, in the First Persian Empire The Achaemenid Empire). Obviously there aren't all that many things know in the west about this time. All the historian's time and money has gone to Roman, Greek and Egyptian mysteries.

Since record keeping from this time seems sketchy I've filled in a few details with information from _later _Persian societies. I've drawn on the Ottoman Empire for this the most, naming people's jobs and interpersonal relations with their version from the Ottomans.

But there are a few things I need to make clear, cause I'd be wondering in your place. Are the costumes so skimpy just because I want John panting after a very delectable Sherlock? No, it was a nice coincidence.

I have a predilection for ancient society info (best A levels ever!), and wanted something not commonly done, so?! Persian, god the jewelry had me hooked at the first google search! Anyway, I'm getting off topic, so I decided on a time frame and did my due diligence, and what did I find? Here's a section that had me doing *fist pump*: These ancient people were a lot more at ease with their bodies and sexuality compared to the later periods. Both males and females used make-up, had long or short hair as they desired, wore jewelry, coloured their body parts and dressed elaborately and colourfully. Men had no problems wearing skirts and fashion and style was not used to emphasis marked gender differences. However, it did distinguish class and status. Body was used freely and sexuality was often perceived as a gift from gods and goddesses and was celebrated. Judging by the number of nude male and female attendants and personalities depicted, nudity did not seem to be a problem. However, high-ranking females would not expose their bodies as much as the ordinary females did as a sign of their high status.

Isn't that brilliant, I tell you the wheels started churning up ideas after that! Talk about sexual tension tidal wave!

Anyhoo, if anyone wants to talk about that more PM me, I've got scads of websites and such for reading if you like.

And if there are any geeky keeners in my readership (rock on, cause we rule) Yes it IS the empire that the Spartans clashed with at Thermopylae, King Leonidas vs Xerxes I, but it wasn't much at all like the movie (or comic) '300' ;P

Ta


	17. Set The Stage

Set The Stage

Mycroft looks inquiringly at Greg as he settles back in his seat, "You know we are stuck in traffic."

Greg, not missing a beat, "Ah, no Myc, I'm not shagging you in the limo that is in the process of picking up the guests. Two of which are my underlings, and _don't_ know that I'm in a relationship let alone a threesome! Not to mention Sarah would give us _such_ a bollocking!"

Mycroft's face twists in an unpleasant expression, "Yes, given how she and I have been so well behaved, I think she would be very mad if I caved now."

Greg chuckles at that, "Right, that she would be."

"So, if I can't have any of that kind of fun, tell me, who are we picking up first?"

Greg groans, "Anderson, which means you will have to keep your hands to yourself! He's the forensic..."

Mycroft buts in with, "I know who he is, Sherlock is often complaining about him."

"Right, well he's being his usual self about the costume, so I offered to help him. I'll go in with him for a few minutes and then we can go on.

Mycroft looks at the fine cotton tunic in a dark red that Greg is wearing. His wide cord belt with various talismans hanging off it. He's wearing bangles of silver and gold, there are gold rings on his fingers, ears and even one in his nose! Smiling at the picture his boyfriend makes Mycroft leans in and kisses Greg slowly and lingeringly.

Greg moans light and high pitched in the back of his throat, as Mycroft pulls carefully away, gesturing to the door. "We've arrived lover."

Greg pulls back, unconsciously checking his lipstick, "That is exactly the kind of thing I DON'T want you to do, you understand?"

"Pigeon, you trying to hide our relationship?" Trying his best to look offended, Mycroft leans back and smooths down his pale golden brown tunic, emphasising for a second the considerate bulge at the groin.

Groaning in irritation, Greg opens the door and heaves himself out, almost desperately. Looking back at his lover, "Just be sure _that _isn't evident when I get back, or I'll get the ice out of the bar fridge." Slamming the door behind him, Greg practically runs up the walk to Anderson's building, cursing under his breath.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Greg sighs in irritation, Anderson is still staring at him disbelievingly. "What? Is it so hard to believe I might know how to apply make-up?"

Making a face reminiscent of a fish on dry land, Anderson visibly gathers himself and then shrugs, "I guess not, you just seem like more of a 'rugger'," looking suddenly worried, "I mean you look like a normal bloke, you know what I mean?"

Greg bites down on the hysterical laughter that is trying to bubble up, and shakes his head a bit, "Careful of those assumptions Sean," picking up his the eyeliner Greg starts putting the heavy long lines along Anderson's upper eyelid. He traces the upper edge going a fair distance out from the corner of his eye and curling up ever so slightly. Then repeating the line on the lower, "I was a bit punk, anti establishment and the whole deal."

Greg pauses as Sean's eyes widen in shock. "Forgive me for asking, but how did you end up a D.I.?"

Smiling in a mildly sarcastic manner, "I realised that nothing about the movement was going to produce change. I was paralysed with the disillusionment of it all. Then one night a grizzled old bobbie, after busting up the club I was at, looked me straight in the eye and said, "Kid, you ain't headed for naught but a body bag here, and what exactly does that bloody change?"

Hearing my thoughts out of this copper really freaked me out, and I went on a bender. But when I dried out, I went to the precinct and asked after the guy. He met me for a pint that night and after ten silent minutes he turned to me and said, 'I dare you to do my job. Keep those blighters from killing kids, and rapin' women. Do my job a year, and if your still at loose ends, bugger off. But I bet you a pint you won't be.'"

Anderson looks in the mirror, seeming uncomfortable with the personal nature of the conversation. "Right, so you did that. Wow, never would have believed it..." He trails off seemingly unsure of what to say now.

Finished with the eyes Greg applies a bit of colour to Anderson's lips, and looks at the jewelry, "So, do you know how to put on any of this stuff?"

"Well," sifting through the box, "rings are about my speed, but what about these things that look like miniature crab claws?"

Shaking his head, Greg shoves the rings at him to put on and picks up the 'claws', "Look how they are kind of rounded and almost but not quite meet in the middle."

Anderson stares without comprehension, "So?"

"They're earrings Sean."

"But my ears aren't pierced!"

Laughing now, Greg picks one up, "These are meant for unpierced ears, see the blunt ends. Since these are made of gold, when we squeeze them into place, they won't move."

Looking unsure, "Uhm, okay."

"Do you want to put them on, or shall I?"

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Greg looked up and down the bench seats of the limo, there were four belly dancers (he doesn't recognise) Myc as the cook, Dimmock was some sort of officer, Sally seemed to be a merchant, him and Anderson were upper class men, as far as Greg can tell, and Sarah is dressed like a very high class woman.

Shifting in his seat toward Sarah, he looks up and down her body, appraisingly. She's wearing a loose, deep sleeved tunic in black, edged in a thick silver design. The material is a fine silk, but not at all transparent, bunched together with an intricate silver rope belt just under her breasts. Her upper arms, wrists, headdress and neck have several silver chains and bands with isolated bright chrysoprase stones hanging off or inset in them.

"So, you must be someone pretty important then." Greg flashes her a teasing flirtatious grin, Sarah however has a chilled presence and somehow looks down on him from her diminutive stature, "Indeed, you'll have to wait to see who though."

Looking over to Mycroft for answers he catches his partner smiling appreciatively at Sarah's doubly veiled expression. Elbowing him lightly, he gets a look flickered over at him after Mycroft's quiet grunt. Eventually he explains, "She's in character, and clearly thinks we are below her in rank, which for me is obvious."

"What do you mean obvious?" Greg looks back at Sarah who is clearly listening, though she pretends not to be.

"Obvious in that I am a lowly cook, and she is not." giving Greg a 'don't play at being thick' look.

Sarah just smiles behind her black veil and keeps up the ruse for the car ride.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

About half way around the gentle loop of the front drive the car slows down to a crawl and Mycroft groans, leaning over to the intercom he buzzes the driver. "What is going on up there?"

"Not much sir, I'm just hopping out to chase a couple cows off the road."

"Argh! Roberts said he'd have the fence fixed so those blasted Charolais couldn't get out again."

Greg whips his head around, "Isn't that a cow...? You have cows?"

Looking quite grim, "No, the functioning 18th century farm within the grounds does, I'd have gotten rid of them ages ago. But the farm is on the parts of the grounds father gave to the National Trust."

Everyone in the car is staring at him now, though Greg and Sarah recover the quickest. Anderson blurts out, "This is a bloody National Trust property?"

"Parts of it, yes." Not wanting to talk about it more, Mycroft turns to the window and rolls it down so they can see in the gathering gloom what the tinted windows hid. Vast grain fields and on the right a lake, the driver is herding the four or five buttermilk coloured cows off to the side so he can get past, and a young man is pelting down the long drive to help him.

In the distance the red brick Neoclassical facade has begun to show itself, the impressive Grecian pillars startlingly white against the brick.

In a few short moments the car starts moving again, and as they draw down the lane opposite the lake, and pasture, apparently, on the left, most of the people in the car are left staring in shock at the immense building they are drawing closer to.

Suddenly Dimmock pipes up, "Wasn't this place built by a famous architect... A Robert Andrews or Adams?"

Mycroft registers a moment of surprise, "Yes Dimmock, Robert Adams, son of William Adams, the Scottish architect. While William was a Georgian style architect, his son, due to time spent in Italy it's supposed, Robert spearheaded the Neoclassical style. He built this place for Sir Francis Child, who died two years into the build, so it's actually Robert Child, his heir, that the place was designed for. It has since passed through Mummy's family till it came to me."

No one speaks as the limo pulls up outside the grand entrance. The tall pillars dwarfing even Greg's impressively broad and tall physique.

The portico, in a classical Greek hexastyle with a Tuscan look to the pillars, is breath taking and a perfect example of Neoclassical architecture. The plasterwork on the portico is elaborate in detail without being overly complex or fussy, rising over their heads as they climb the stairs with rearing winged lions on the front face and marigolds on the ceiling of the portico itself.

As they pass through the second set of pillars into a wide rectangular courtyard, Sara notices a worried cast to Greg's face. Trying to be subtle she takes a step that's more sideways than forward and tries to catch his eye.

Greg for his part is jarred from his thoughts by Sarah intruding in his personal space. He flashes his gaze up to her inquiring eyes, and flickers his own, leadingly, over to the rigid frame of Mycroft. Realisation blooms in her eyes as she makes for Mycroft before he has a chance to go inside.

Cheeky expression plastered on her face she steps in front of Mycroft. "Well now, tonight is going to be a bit of a turn up, isn't it then. Imagine me, a lowly doctor ranking higher than your lordship." she waggles her eyebrows at him ludicrously, "Aught to be fun, hmm?"

The stiff grimness of everyone staring at him over the blasted house has no chance against Sarah's charm. Mycroft's back relaxes, and he actually cracks a bit of a smile before bowing slightly.

"Ah, yes it will be quite the evening, I am sure!" Sarah giggles like a school girl and looks back to Greg, who is smiling back at her, worry gone.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The doors opened into a large hall, Greg notes it is around 60' by 40' with fireplaces in alcoves at both ends with little niches that house statues flanking the fireplaces. The walls are covered in more plasterwork that seems to cover every wall, but the over all effect is minimal due to the pale colours used.

That's where subtle ends!

Set up in front of the fireplace on the left is a low slung back chair. It's legs are ornately carved and the back gently slopes away from the seat which is pilled high with cushions. There are persian carpets strewn about in a broad swath from the front door to the foot of the chair. There are dozens of cushions on the ground around the chair, and as they all mill about at the door, passing off coats or wraps to a servant, more people creep into the room.

So that when they turn there is a tableau in front of them.

Dominating the room is a crowned, painted figure dressed in royal purple and gold, fairly dripping in adornments, and at his feet is a painted, lithe figure clad in transparent Mediterranean blue silk and almost literally dripping in gold, a huge necklace lying on his chest. Off to one side two women, one more richly dressed than the other, but both dressed in lovely flowing thick silk.

Sarah is the first of the visitors to recover her decorum, "Is that you John?"

xxxxxxxxxx


	18. Set To Begin

Set To Begin

The crown tilts up from his quiet conversation with the figure at his feet, and they can all see John's face, which is a bit darker than normal. Somewhere behind her Sarah hears a muttered, "Bloody hell!"

John stands and beckons them closer, "Please my friends, come and sit, chef has been planning this meal for you for days!" Raising his hands with authority he claps twice sharply and some delicate traditional Persian modal music begins to play.

"Sit, relax, the girls will dance and we can all talk about what ever occurs to us."

And just like that, with a smile, maybe one or two giggles, everyone assumes their roles. Sarah strides up to John, bows slightly, "Sultan." Then she sits down to his right on the little mound of pillows there.

Mycroft smiles and disappears out a doorway no one noticed.

Dimmock goes and stands behind John,with his back to the fire a bit to the left of the throne, standing watch.

Molly and Anthea materialise out of another door and join the other belly dancers dancing.

Greg moves to sit beside Sarah, and winks saucily at her when she gives him a cold look.

Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner sit in that order opposite Sarah and Greg, which puts them on the same side as Sherlock.

Sally and Anderson were about to sit beside Greg when he gave them a shake of the head no. Confused they move to sit with the two ladies.

Anderson is staring at the belly dancers in clear appreciation, as are Sally and Greg, but Sarah is not.

She can't help but look at Sherlock. The man she mentally dubbed, 'insufferably busy', is currently kneeling beside John's feet looking toward the dancers, but clearly, not really AT them. She feels her face is getting warm as she takes in what John meant by, 'most likely not have much kit on!'

While she's watching Sherlock shifts a bit, sliding to one side of his feet and stretching back towards John's legs a bit. Sarah watches, amused, as a pink tint colours Sherlock's face, neck and chest. Contemplation running riot in her mind, she doesn't realise she's staring, until John's voice, in her ears, jars her out of her trance and her eyes up to him.

"Why exactly are you staring at my Ikbal Sarah?"

She opens her mouth to explain when a quiet moan reaches her ears, shock colours John's face for a second as she looks on. Then comprehending the sound came from Sherlock, she looks down to see his eyes wide with shock and his cheeks a darker shade of red.

Sarah's own shock widened eyes look to John's ruddy face as she realises she must pretend not to have heard the moan and tries desperately to remember what John had said.

"Sorry, I was," flickering a look down at Sherlock, who's still looking away from them, "admiring his necklace, it is stunning."

John's natural colouring coming back a bit, he smiles down at Sherlock, "It is, isn't it. I know you may not have had this in mind when you said I should pick an ikbal, but look around. Could I really have picked another?"

Sarah smiles, shaking her head slowly, "It may not be the most political move, but..." Sudden inspiration striking, Sarah sees how she might help the two of them within the guise of this game. "Seeing the effect you have on one another, I think it was the correct move. You both seem radiant in your happiness."

At Sarah' comment, Sherlock lifts his eyes from the floor for the first time since she walked into the room. She reflexively takes a huge breath in, as sea green eyes, startlingly outlined in black coal, shimmering with uncertainty and excitement lock with hers. They boldly ask and Sarah can not but answer, "I've never seen a person so happy to just be, beside you, you're both complete."

Mrs. Hudson, who had been watching out of the corner of her eye and comfortable in the knowledge that everyone else was either talking about, or watching the dancers, slowly reaches out to Sherlock.

Sensing her hand approach, Sherlock seems to become a bit overwhelmed, fine tremors run down his spine as her gnarled hand strokes lightly down his arm. "I agree with you vizier, he was never this happy before the Sultan came into his life."

Sherlock's searching gaze moves to his landlady and surrogate mother, but as he tries to deduce her, all he sees is her absolute conviction in the words spoken between the four of them, and has to agree. Desperate to escape the mounting emotional pressure, Sherlock retreats into his mind palace.

Mrs. Hudson sees this first and sadly shakes her head as she offers up a pained smile to John and Sarah. "It's going to be a long night isn't it?"

John gives her a weary look, where as Sarah seems more contemplative. Martha Hudson thinks to herself that John and Sherlock had better sort themselves SOON or she'd have to have another of those frank conversations with John.

A young serving man in billowy fine cotton trousers, a thick sash at his waist and dark coal on his eyes appears out of nowhere and passes Sarah an A3 sized tablet of biscuit clay. She looks a bit surprised as he whispers something to her, but soon is nodding at him. With a smile he disappears from where ever he came.

Looking at John, "I have here the reports from the palace guard and the city guard. The people seem quite happy My Lord. The dole is easily feeding the poor and the slaves from battle in the West are working hard, by all accounts happy under Achaemenid rule."

John nods, "Good, hopefully this will make the rest of the Greeks see reason."

Sarah laughs, "I doubt it, they are barbarians and don't understand proper behaviour." Looking more serious now, "So is there anything you wish me to put down on record?"

John looks thoughtful, "No, not that I can think of, I'm content really other than my lack of children."

Thoughtfully pressing a sharpened stylus to her lip, "Hmm, that would be one reason to have chosen another ikbal!"

John shakes his head, "No, I've been very careful, Mrs. Hudson, the harem manager keeps me distributing my time around. I just have my Ikbal in my chambers all night, rather than how I visit the others, in the harem. My sister," gesturing to Mrs. Turner, "Has been worried of late, she often asks how my attempts at founding a family are coming. Sadly I've been able to do naught but disappoint her of late."

Mrs. Hudson smiles and joins in, "Well she is very interested in the dynasty of her family I think. She's always asking after who is with child, and if they have any likes she can provide."

Sarah contemplates adding her given clue, but decides it's too early. With a smile she nods, "As a faithful older sister should be."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Sally stares openly at Sherlock as they move to sit, which is why Greg's shaking head takes her by surprise. Unable to tear her eyes away from the figure reclining on the floor it slowly occurs to her that her boss is trying to pull the pretty doctor. With a shrug of confusion she thinks to herself, 'Wasn't the freak's big brother chasing her at Angelo's though? Ah well.'

The whole time she'd been thinking Sherlock's eyes remained glued to the floor, she watches fascinated, as the man she called 'freak' for his busy obsessive nature, sits quietly and calmly. She elbows Sean rather hard trying to drag his eyes from the lithe dancers in the middle of the room.

"What?" he hisses back, without turning his head.

With a wicked smirk Sally thinks for a moment what would snag Anderson's perpetually horny attention. "I think Sherlock is so sexy tonight, don't you?"

Sure enough, "What the...?" He whips his head around and stares at her, then Sherlock, and back to her. "I don't know what to say."

Sally's smirk grows into a full laughing grin, "What, sexy god of indulgence got your tongue?"

"Ha, bloody, ha! Why on earth are you even looking at him?"

"Make no mistake, he's still a freak. Come on, look at how easy he acts the part of 'sex kitten', it's bloody weird! My god though, it's like looking at a painting of some ancient pornography book!"

Humoring Sally's odd mood now, "Yeah, yeah, 'he's tall, and slim, his hair is perfect, eyes to die for and an ass that won't quit'. But he's still Sherlock, an unbelievable ass."

"Doesn't mean I can't enjoy the scenery, like I always do."

Stifling his irritation he turns back to stare at the shy, wee pathologist in revelation.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Mycroft watches in amazement as the staff, some dressed for the evening, some in the usual livery buzz around him. From the nervous glances occasionally thrown his way, he figures the flurry is in part because he's standing there.

Catching the mistress of the staff's eye he beckons her over. "Janet, I know it is very strange for me to be here, but for my role this evening, I felt it wise to watch a bit so I can give the information forward as though I had been involved."

"Oh yes, my Lord, I know. Just as I know you wouldn't think we can't cope with the unusual recipe requests, but some of the others are a bit jumpy. Some people are just that way, aren't they. I made sure not to pick them to serve in the hall, so hopefully the guests won't be disturbed."

Mycroft waves the comment away with his hand, "I trust you told them exactly what I asked you to, but perhaps we need a 'pep talk', hmm?"

Turning to the whirling room Mycroft clears his throat, in a heart beat or two the room slows and stills as more and more of the occupants turn to stare at the lord of the house.

"My good people, I want to thank you in advance for this evening, I know you will have pulled out all the stops and our guests will have a lasting impression of your skills and discretion. I'm sorry to be so underfoot, and mucking up your smooth efficiency, but tonight the lord of the manor is the 'sultan's' chef!"

He pauses, allowing for some nervous and disbelieving titters, "I know!" smiling genially at them all, "I'm absolutely lost, so if anyone has insights for me, don't hesitate to bring them to me."

Turning away, effectively dismissing the room, Mycroft smiles at Janet as the whirling picks up again, but seems a bit less frantic.

Janet nods once, then tips her chin toward a young woman behind the lord of the house. Mycroft spins about to see a girl, maybe seventeen, looking at her hands and shifting from foot to foot. Suppressing all the information her body language and bearing gives him, he steps toward her.

"What is it Edwina?"

"My Lord, your, uhm... Too clean to have been cooking." She lifts up in her left hand ('the dominant one, same foot is slightly forward of the other, but she never raises her eyes' Mycroft's mind supplies), and offers him a smudged, floury towel. "Perhaps a hand print in flour too?"

Taking the towel, Mycroft nods, "Thank you Edwina." The young girl then curtsies, turns and dashes off to her duties.

Mycroft gives Janet a long look, his mind racing, "Tell me she is a 'live in' servant."

Janet nods crisply, her eyes taking on a particularly protective cast.

"Then," turning to the room as all sorts of conclusions pop up in his minds eye, none good, "make sure she's never alone please."

Janet looks after Edwina, who is jumping out of people's way, listening to the timber of the lord's voice. "Of course my Lord, I had wondered myself."

Walking quickly over to a counter where a drawer pulls out to reveal a flour bin, Mycroft dusts his fingers and places a hand print somewhere even a careful person could have missed, just below and behind his hip bone. "Very well, I'll go in and announce that food is imminent, follow in a few minutes please."

Not waiting for a response Mycroft turns and marches back out into the hall to present himself before the 'sultan'. Professionally, he doesn't look to his lovers, the belly dancers, or the startlingly half nude figure of his brother at John's feet, just at his 'sultan', and John returns his gaze.

"My Lord, if the dancers would settle a bit, they will be bringing things through to set up for a meal."

Doing, in Mycroft's opinion, a great job at commanding from his 'throne', John smiles a bit and claps twice. The music shifts and quietens as the dancers come to rest, with a smile Molly moves to settle beside Lestrade, when Anthea whispers in her ear, and they join the end of group on the other side. Mycroft smiles into Anthea's knowing eyes, a bit not good, her doing that so openly, but nothing was keeping him from his lovers tonight.

Standing to the side slightly so the servers can bring everything in, he looms over Greg who casts a coy look up at him while everyone is chatting with the dancers. Mycroft pretends not to notice and orchestrates the long low table being maneuvered in to hold the food.

Soon a thick table cloth is laid out and the dishes from the kitchens start arriving. Once the flurry is over Mycroft smiles and looks to John with a 'shall I?' John nods.

"Our Sultan has honored us all with a fine meal. For mains we have Gheimeh, which is a split-pea stew, Kufteh, steamed meatballs spiced with various herbs, and Fesenjan duck stew, a slow roasted stew with walnuts and pomegranates sauce. That last one is a recipe taken off a temple wall from the Achaemenid Empire, so we'll see if it's stood the test of time. Of course there is both white and saffron flavoured persian rice to accompany the dishes.

As well there are several dishes to accompany the mains, beyaz peynir, a salty white sheep cheese, feta, several flatbreads, naan-e barbari, naan-e sangak, and flavoured naan-e taftan, bowls of dates, pistachios, roasted spiced fava beans, walnuts, sliced, peeled cucumbers, sliced tomatoes and onions, plates of fresh basil, cilantro, fenugreek, spring onion, mint. Not to mention the many types of pickled garlic, chillies, cauliflower, carrots, beets, shallots and ginger. As well as cherry, rose, squash, and citron preserves.

You will note two large vessels, one with a herb chutney, the other with thick strained yogurt. There are also plates for dolma, which is a mixture of ground meat and spiced rice in vine leaves, sliced melons and shami kebab, which is ground chick peas and meat boiled together, served with as lemon, mint, coriander chutney.

Available to drink are arak, an anise spirit, grape wine, date wine, beer, and of course no persian meal is complete without chai tea.

While Mycroft did his spiel the staff effortlessly materials plate after plate of food, till the short legged table is groaning.

John, after motioning Mycroft to take his seat, stands, smiles around at the guests and speaks, "Well people, this crazy night, which is all for you ladies, Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Hudson, hope you enjoy it! Lets relax and eat!"

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Yeah, I know I'm cruel to draw it out, but I got a few msgs today about leaving people hanging, so I felt compelled to upload a chapter!

Next chapter, the actual mystery, gets going, hope it's enjoyable!


	19. The Sultan's Brood Mare

Sorry this one is so short, but life has been hectic and I started to feel guilty for not posting. Then low and behold I realised this bit had a great stopping point, if only 500+ words in.

So here we go, the first bit of the mystery and hopefully I'll post more later this week.

**The Sultan's Brood Mare**

Everyone had been happily eating the glorious food, even Sherlock. Though he, cheekily, made a production of demurely asking John if he is even ___allowed _to eat and encouraging John to hand feed him when ever possible.

Distracted from the spectacle they make, John is so thrilled Sherlock is ___asking for food _he finds himself placing small morsels of naan and roast meats between Sherlock's lips. John can feel the hair on the back of his neck and arms standing up as Sherlock's tongue accidentally slides against his forefinger. The sensation is closely followed by a shudder as those ___lips_ close around the finger for a moment to keep the pomegranate sauce from dripping down Sherlock's chin.

A roughly cleared throat has John's eyes landing on Greg's dark expression, a fraction of a second later John realises everyone was watching him feed Sherlock with a smile, like he was either a favourite pet or lover. Scanning the faces around them, from supporting, to disgusted, interested, then back to supporting, John snaps back to the reality of how sexually charged their behaviour is becoming, quite suddenly it would seem.

Leaning back away from Sherlock, who gives a moue of distress, John chuckles, "Guess I should get Indian take away more often than Chinese, huh? Maybe you wouldn't be so skinny."

Sherlock, his weight behind him, bore up by his left elbow on a stack of pillows, rocks back, giving an exaggerated inhalation causing his torso to swell, his knees shifting causing the arrows of exposed flesh up his inner thighs to contract and expand.

"But John," voice clearly fake-ly put upon, "I thought you liked the long lithe look."

Saved from trying to respond to that by a young man, dressed similarly to Dimmock, darting across the room to whisper urgently to the Master of the Guard.

"My Lord?" Dimmock comes forward and gestures the young man away again, "there has been a break in at the stables!"

All eyes turn to Fraiser as John urges him on, "It's your mare sir, she's gone without a trace!"

With an uncharacteristic roar, John launches himself to his feet and sets off in a rush, everyone else can do little but follow in his wake. They stream out the house and across the lawns to the stables where there is an empty stall and a few other horses are whinnying, generally unsettled and fearful.

John looks around, it does just look as though the mare has vanished, other than the door being open and the head collar missing, everything is where it should be. "Does anyone see anything? Sister? Vizier? Damn it Dimmock, how could this have happened?"

The Master of the Guard shakes his head and is about to, in all probability, say something about the guard not being able to be everywhere at once when Sarah suddenly askes, "My lord? Where is your Ikbal?"

John, murmuring, "He was just here..." turns to see only the cruel empty night in the flickering torchlight where Sherlock had been. Without another word John rushes back to the house, half running there, he's frozen in the doorway for almost a minute before the others catch up.

Beyond his hand, that is raised up gripping the doorframe tightly barring entry, even his own, is the slumped over form of Sherlock, lying prone on the floor.


	20. Death of an Ikbal

Death of an Ikbal

Spurred back to reality by the arrival of the others John lurches forward, toward the body. Sarah and Mrs. H. Take ahold of his arms to steady him.

Suddenly John is back pedaling and whispering 'no' under his breath. They struggle with the sudden movement for a moment, having not expected it. Sarah meets Mrs. H's eye and they seem to talk over John's shoulder, 'Something drastic, yeah?' 'Goodness, yes.' With agreement Sarah turns to face him, hauls off and smacks John - louder than it is hard - across the face.

John looks at her, death in his countenance, "It's just a game John, he's fine," she whispers. "Go check his pulse and then put on a show as the grieving Master!"

The fire in his eyes dims and fades, like coals banked in their own ash, he holds her eye with grim determination, "Thank you... I'm..." John suddenly pulls all that messy emotion back in, Sarah can almost see it, spooling past, like a tape being wound up and stored away.

The assembled group waits with wide eyes, most having not seen John come this unhinged even directly after Sherlock faked his death. A few confused as to why he'd be upset, now, or then.

Flashing a grin over his shoulder, "Profoundly sorry for interrupting the flow, old memories still have teeth it seems."

Mrs Hudson pats his hand, "Well go on then, be 'sultan-ly' distraught over his death!"

Finally catching his stride, John walks over and begins to put on a performance, over the body. He demands a table be brought, and Sherlock be laid out to rest on it. He calls for guards and seals off the palace, as well as the room. He stares at every one of them, each in turn, long enough to make the person shuffle and fidget under his wrathfully gaze.

"My precious Ikbal lies there dead, and I will know why! There has been no one, but the slaves and ourselves here tonight. So that means one of you is the killer of my beloved. And I demand satisfaction! I will know who did this foul deed. It would behoove you all to try and figure out who it was, because if I have to wait too long My guard will NOT be gentle."

Sarah clears her throat, "But sire, they can not be exempt from suspicion, it was after all a guardsman who lured us out to the stables."

John's face takes on a thunderous cast as he stares down his Vizier, everyone else glances about, looking from one to the other, suspicion building in their eyes.

One of them was the killer.


	21. Through the Eyes of an Ikbal

Through the Eyes of an Ikbal

Sherlock smiles that hidden half smile as the plot starts up, and grinds an iced flagon against his erection. As far as he deduced the plot ('pathetically simple as that was' his mind reminds him) they were about to run off somewhere and Sherlock was not about to if he looked like a hat stand!

Dimmock was telling John about a stolen mare, and John, a better actor that Sherlock had ever figured, bounces up in a rage and charges off.

Sherlock joins in with the fray after making sure he wouldn't be embarrassing himself more than necessary, he's close to the edge of the group clustered around John, who rants as he walks.

There's a flash of movement back at the house and Sherlock turns to see a dark shape in vast tattered robes dart up the stair to the portico and through to the court yard. Curious Sherlock glances once at John then darts off himself

'John doesn't need to worry about being unable to carry this evening,' he thinks sprinting up the steps, 'he's doing a great job. Now who the hell was that?'

The court yard is empty, but the door is slightly open, a sliver of light spilling out. As Sherlock runs around the edge of the dark courtyard towards the door, a shadow stops the light for a moment and Sherlock freezes till it moves on. Who ever it was seemed to stare out at the yard looking for him for ever, though Sherlock knows it was only five seconds.

Once the shadow moves on Sherlock runs straight for the door and darts inside hoping to have moved faster than the intruder would reckon. Coming to rest on his bare feet, crouched just inside the door, he scans the empty room.

'Where the devil...' Sherlock looks behind John's throne, as it's the only item large enough to cover a person, he even looks under the table, though at sixteen inches off the ground there's not much room to get under there.

Standing he moves to return to the group 'Well, I was sure I was supposed to die now.' he thinks to himself.

Just as he's about to turn and exit the room he feels a tap on his shoulder, thinking it's a member of staff he turns only to see a costumed person.

"Ah-ha,I am supposed to die now. Good."

"Well then," the other person says passing him a slip of silk, "lie down and be dead please, they are on their way back by now."

Sherlock smirks and collapses artfully as the killer secrets themselves again.

'All told that was but moments, I wonder if John has noticed I'm gone yet?' Closing his eyes halfway in that glazed dead manner he perfected long ago, Sherlock feels a deep sense of uneasiness as the reality of what he's doing hits him.

He's playing dead, for John, again.

Academically, Sherlock had thought this might be good for the two of them, like the dinner had been for the suit. Show John that once and for all, if Sherlock faked his death again, John would be in on it, or at the very least Sherlock would come back to him right away.

But lying there waiting for John, he was having a hard time keeping order in his mind palace. There was a tingling, phantom pain all along his left side. The left cheekbone and wrist actually ached and throbbed, even though he's posed mostly on his back rolled over on his right shoulder a bit.

Growling under his breath he grips the cloth in his hand, sensitive fingers finding the separate threads of the silk he was given. With that physical sensation grounding him the disruption fades.

Right on time he hears footsteps out in the courtyard, 'John' unbidden his mind rushes to the last time, that memory spills over his senses, helped by John's voice moaning in horror in the doorway. And Sherlock is lost for a moment, the memory of the pain, physical and emotional, rocks him, pinning him under. In his mind's eye he sees John's face as he stares seemingly unseeing past him, he feels a sinking as suddenly he's in a rapid free fall within his mind palace, falling from the roof over, and over again.

Focus comes with a cold, clear, knife-like precision. John's hand, calm 'touch of the tremor, but not full blown, this is affecting him too. God John, I'm sorry about agreeing to this, I thought it would help.' he can't help wishing, yes wishing! In the depths of his mind as John takes his pulse. 'Ah! You are a light in the darkness John. Just the thing to point out we both know this is just fiction, not like last time.'

Calmness envelopes Sherlock like a blanket and he inhales all the way forcing his chest to move visibly, making the saka glitter in John's eye. He hears a quiet grunt from John, 'Message received' now he can relax.

Memory having no power over him he turns his ears to listen to John take command of the room, the powerful sultan once more. Comforted by this Sherlock waits for the others to start asking questions and figuring things out, 'Good god I'm bored already.'

Hands reach out and lift him onto a surface which is just as hard, but a fair bit warmer than the stone floor. During this his right arm flops out with the scrap do silk in his fingers. "What's this then? Sir, you better take a look." Dimmock's voice booms right in his ear as he gently removes the material from Sherlock's hand.

He can positively feel John glowering above him. It's as though waves of irate energy are flowing off his flatmate, like the water current at the base of a waterfall. Sherlock is in a way glad for it, as John's odd behaviour provides his brain with at least a modicum of distraction.

'Oh, it is going to be a long night.'


	22. The Delicate Waeve

**Chapter Text**

Marie Turner was having the time of her life. Everything about this evening was splendid, the local, the costumes, the food, the acting, all absolutely top notch. She was so lucky to have such a good friend in Martha Hudson.

But then they had been good friends for a very long time now. Having met when she moved into 223 Baker St. fourty three years ago after getting married to Paul Turner. Martha was a very welcoming soul to the 'midlands lass' Marie had been, as she was London born and bred, not completely overcome by the hussle and bustle of the great city like poor Marie.

A saviour in many ways, though quiet, and often staying close to the house, Martha helped Marie gain her feet in London, having someone as much a 'home body' as her to work up her courage with, did wonders.

Her dear Paul, who passed many years ago, had always supported her friendship with Martha, and encouraged her to stay in contact, even when their children took over her life, Paul made her get together with Martha. Stating it was good for both of them.

Looking back on those conversations with her partner, Marie wonders if he knew more about 'the situation' with Martha's husband than he let on. In those days though, even the most progressive of couples didn't share 'men's business' with their wives.

Looking over to the 'body', laid out on the table covered over with a silk cloth, Marie realises she has never once thanked Sherlock for freeing her friend. Looking around, to note where John is, she walks over to Sherlock and stands there a moment.

Finally giving a little huff of a laugh she fiddles with a trailing edge of beads on her costume and speaks. "Sherlock, I know this is a bit weird, but I'd never have the guts to tell you while your up and deducing everything under the sun, or shooting the adjoining wall of the houses. Don't think I don't know that that was you Master* Homes!"

"On the other hand, I know this has a very 'graveside confessions' feel to it, but this is something I want you to know, so if you don't mind, I'll not wait till your dead to say it. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes, so much for making sure that wretch was given lethal injection in Florida. After watching Martha suffer under him for thirty five years I thank god you were there to make sure he never saw the light of day again."

Looking over her shoulder, she sees more than one pair of eyes looking at her in confusion, and then quickly looking away. "He took everything from her, her family, the possibility of children, simple happiness even. But with one action you have given it all back. You are the son she never had, and you've brought such a wonderful young man home to her. I'm certain I could never explain exactly how much you two mean to Martha."

Crouching down she sneaks her hand under the cloth and grasps Sherlock's hand, to have the grip returned strongly. With one last thank you Marie Turner extracts her hand and moves over to talk to John and Sarah.

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John watches with curiosity as Mrs. Turner seemingly talks to Sherlock while he lies there pretending to be dead. A cold shudder travels his body as a nightmarish image of her stopping by a coffin like that flashes before his eyes.

"Alright?" comes from Sarah beside him.

"Yeah, just a bit thrown by Mrs. Turner's behaviour."

"Well don't look now, she's headed over here!"

John watches as Mrs. Turner walks calmly over to them, "Have a nice chat?"

Mrs. Turner smiles and curtsies, "No Sire, just saying goodbye, he was a lovely boy."

John nods, catching the shift in thinking and turns to survey the room. After a few minutes of quiet contemplation Mrs. Turner clears her throat. "You know how you commanded we tell you everything we know that might be important?"

She looks to see John nodding slowly and hastens to continue, "Well it might not be anything, but Molly, the master belly dancer, has been a bit restless lately and more than one of the dancers has heard her say she belonged in the harem, and with the boy out of the way you'd finally notice her."

Sarah and John exchange sharp looks, "Really, when did you find that out?"

Well into the character now, Mrs. Turner smiles and waves the question off, as though it isn't as important as the information she had. "Last week? Maybe earlier, but it seemed so implausible. People who are unhappy often say such thing, but seldom mean it, after all."

Sarah half turns and gestures to Dimmock, "Soon find out though, Dimmock can be trusted to discover the truth."


	23. First Row of Knots

Okay! Here are a few more suspicions and a drop more plotting! Sorry to be giving this out in such short bits, but I'm obsessed with the idea of leading you through the mystery.

No real warnings, Except maybe BAMF John.

First Row of Knots

Molly looked from Dimmock, to John, to Sarah hoping that one of them would explain what's going on. Looking back at John her face scrunched up in anguish, "Sire, I... who told you this? I would never presume to force your hand! You have always treated myself and the other dancers with respect, and we are loyal to you and your Ikbal!"

Feeling a lack of trust in her words, Molly looks around for support. Seeing Mrs. Hudson, she pulls frantically on the grip the Master of the Guard has on her arm. "Mrs. Hudson, please, please help me, tell them I didn't hurt Sherlock, please!"

Mrs. Hudson pats Molly on the arm drawing closer to the little group. "Try not to worry so much, after all you aren't the only one with motive after all." Turning she smiles comfortingly at John, but it's Fraiser who speaks up. "Why exact did the lady here have to call me and my guards to the harem to physically separate you and your Ikbal yesterday Sire? What could you possibly be fighting about."

Looking horrified and then a bit angry John adopts an aggressive body posture, shoulders back, head tilted forward and down with his chin cocked to the side a touch.

"We were having a disagreement about his status."

Everyone in this impromptu group, and indeed the rest of the room stares at John in confusion and shock.

Irritation truly colouring his tone now, "Come on now people! As if I would harm the man I've strived to protect and nurture?! Use your brains."

Sally moves into the group drawing attention to herself, "Then do you care to explain why you were shouting loud enough that Mrs. Hudson felt she should get the Guard?"

Rubbing at his forehead in irritation John fixes her with a ferocious look. "Sherlock was trying to protect me, he said he'd heard mumblings of dissent in the harem since I gave him his title, and he wanted me to take it back..."

John breaks off, needing to bite back his (possibly misplaced) anguish over the death, and do some fast thinking. This direction of the conversation was NOT one he and Sherlock practiced! Though somehow all those past hurts we're driving him towards these cliffs, without his consent.

"I couldn't take it back, it wasn't in me to do so. He got angry that I couldn't see the plain logic of selecting a _woman_. I became irrationally angry, that he would suppose my choosing him could be set aside for _logic!?_ I was not in control of my temper and I shouted... a lot, and grabbed him by the arms to shake some bloody sense into him, but that is all. We spent the night, last night, together like always, and I'm sure our behaviour during the feast was rife with emotion, but _not_ anger!"

No one moves for a second, and it's clear at least Lestrade understands that this monologue references John's feelings during the Moriarty fiasco. Quietly he walks around to John's elbow, "I think they were just pointing out that Molly might not be as guilty as the testimony might make it seem, after all you yourself have more of a motive. We're just doing as you asked and asking all the questions we can."

Gruffly, in control again John nods once, "Then hurry up and ask them."


	24. A Weaver's Tangle

Looking from John, who's still struggling to cover up the intensity of his outburst, to the floor, Fraiser marshals his thoughts. "Well it's not as though the Sultan is the only one acting oddly in the last while." Turning he calls out harshly, "Mycroft! Before the Sultan, now!"

From where he stands with the dancers, Mycroft turns his head and looks across the room with interest. Quickly he starts over, weaving between the cluster around John, bowing at the hip - a good bit - his face down, "My Lord, what can a humble cook do for you?"

Rolling his eyes, but suppressing a smile, 'Man, he's good, I'd never suspect he isn't indentured*!' "Leave off Mycroft, I heard you've been making some weird food for the harem lately." Fraiser questions.

Sally pipes up, "What does that have to do with anything Frasier?"

Mycroft, meanwhile, has snapped upright, looking the picture of indignant fury. "How DARE you suggest that I would be giving the harem second rate food!"  
Drawing his anger about him like a cloak, Mycroft lays into poor Fraiser. "I have been using all of my pull to make exciting new foods that might give the Sultan the strongest, fittest, offspring imaginable. Though I cannot take credit for the idea," he gestures to Mrs. Turner, "it was Marie who first thought nutrition might be the answer to the lack of pregnancies in the harem."

John's eyes widen.

All eyes swivel to Mrs. Turner who looks completely unruffled. "Oh really? Of course I did, I am anxious for my little brother to have children before I'm too old to enjoy them! Besides, what does the birth rate in the harem have to do with the death of the Ikbal?"

John snaps his eyes back to Mrs. Turner at the odd way she pronounces the word 'Ikbal', there was something off about it, a bit of a negative lilt to it? Or was she just rubbish at pronouncing the word itself?

Pinning her with his eyes, cold blue and as hard as the depths of a glacial moulin*, "Perhaps my Ikbal was seen as a hindrance to said birth rate, something I'd not tolerate being brought to my attention, so he was just effectively gotten rid of!"

Mrs. Turner just smiles at him, even reaching out to hug him, "Dear little brother, what is with your mare going missing then? Why did he have her ear covering clutched in his hand?"

After a moment of stiffness he relaxes into her arms and returns the hug. The people around them disperse a bit to give them some privacy.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Author notes: I hope your all enjoying the odd way I'm writing this story. Here have some definitions!

indentured* - 1. a contract binding one party into the service of another for a specified term. Often used in the plural.2. a person who signs and is bound by indentures to work for another for a specified time especially in return for payment of travel expenses and maintenance.

It is quite common in the UK to drop the 'servant' off the end of the term.

Glacial moulin - A moulin or glacier mill is a roughly circular, vertical to nearly vertical well-like shaft within a glacier through which water enters from the surface. The term is derived from the French word for mill.

They can be up to 10 meters wide and are typically found at a flat area of a glacier in a region of transverse crevasses. Moulins can reach the bottom of the glacier, hundreds of meters deep, or may only reach the depth of common crevasse formation (about 10–40 m) where the stream flows englacially. They are the most typical cause for the formation of a glacier cave.


	25. Taking the Time

Okay, sorry this doesn't further the story at all, but is necessary, and something I've felt was true since the original airing of The Fall. So let's have a moment with the 'in-laws' ;P

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Post comforting hug from his 'older sister', John pulls away and walks a few steps closer to the table Sherlock is lying on, focused on the bare feet sticking out the bottom edge of the cloth John misses a quiet approach.

Suddenly Mycroft is looming in John's peripheral vision and John starts, visibly jerked out of his contemplations he waits for Mycroft to gloat over sneaking up on him.

It doesn't happen, and John is forced to realise, as he studies Mycroft, that he isn't the only one scarred by 'The Fall'. Mycroft was also kept in the dark about his brother's trick until Sherlock could be sure there were no leaks in his organisation, it took him eight months.

"It's quite something isn't it?" Mycroft's voice is so small, a mere thread compared to the usual authoritative tones, "I never thought to be standing over his body again..."

John shifts from foot to foot, leg twinging a bit, "Have you talked about the F... well... about the last time with anyone?" Rolling his stiff shoulder he pulls his eyes away from the still form of his best friend and raises them to meet that man's brother's.

The sarcastically lifted eyebrow does a bit to dispel the raw emotion in Mycroft's face. He seems torn between saying, 'are you mad?' and 'non of your business!'. John nods to himself and is about to suggest talking with Greg when Mycroft starts talking.

"I spent the first month in the front room of the club. I didn't go home, I have no idea if I slept, all I can remember is the startling realisation I came to while reading one of those news rag exposés. If I left the room I'd never stop screaming, till the end of my days."

John, who at the beginning of this speech had whipped his head around to stare at Sherlock, doesn't miss the flinch that makes the cloth rustle a tiny bit. He keeps his gaze on the empty expanse of the cloth, allowing his vision to blur, trying to will himself to be the kind of support he thinks Mycroft needs right now, a sympathetic, quiet ear.

"Of course I continued to work, or so it seemed to my superiors, I have a lot to thank Anthea for. I answered texts and emails sure enough, but I wasn't able to... talk for months."

Rubbing absent-mindedly at his jaw muscle, "I developed horrible problems with my molars and my jaw because it was always clenched shut. A condition that only got worse as I tried to force myself back out into the world. I kept up this pattern for five months, at which time Anthea came to me and said there was something odd going on."

Placing a hand on John's shoulder he draws the ex-soldier's eyes back to him. "It was the first whispers that something was going on in the criminal underworld. With the first whispers, months before, we assumed it was the natural power struggle after Moriarty's death. This was of course not true, and when she came to me that day a small spread of hope bloomed in my heart and the compulsion to scream began to fade."

John searches the man's face as the anguish fades in his eyes and a tiny smile fights to be free. "After all Sherlock excels in being where and when neither of us imagine he could have been."

John huffs a humourless self depreciating laugh, "He certainly does, I've never been so happy to be wrong than I was the night he came home."

Mycroft's hand clenches tightly over the muscles of John's shoulder for a moment and then turns and swans off.

Watching for a moment as the imposing man once again became a meek cook, John shakes his head ruefully, "Bloody hell Sher, what did you do to us all?"

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Sherlock cannot believe what his ears are telling him. Quickly, using his other senses he verifies the identities of the people standing with him. John was easy, Sherlock could almost see a John shaped blob through his eyelids, and his ears are full of the little movements and sounds John makes.

Not to mention the smell of his flatmate, the combination of his Radox sea mineral shower gel and the comforting warmth of woollen jumpers with the aromas of black teas mixed in. 'Home.'

A little perplexed he checks the identity of the second person, even in his costume Mycroft is unmistakeable, so tall and 'At the moment,' slim. The distinct blend of lavender and lemongrass in his bespoke moisturiser mingling with the crisp sent of his cotton costume wafts over to Sherlock. It can be no other.

This makes their conversation even more frightening. Sure he'd known Mycroft was happy, in his understated 'caring is a disadvantage' way, to be contacted by his presumed dead little brother. But Sherlock hadn't for a second believed that his brother had been inconsolable during his 'death'!

He resolves to have Greg find out if it's as bad as it all sounded.


	26. Combing the Strands

_"Bloody hell Sher, what did you do to us all?"  
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_"I think," starts Mrs. Hudson at his elbow suddenly, "the more concise question, John, would be, how did_ he _cope all alone?" running her fingers just under the edge of the cloth to stroke Sherlock's fringe Mrs. Hudson seems, a moment, older than her years.

An effect that is gone when she smiles up at John. "Let's leave that for now! I think you should know your sister has been needling me about who is with child for months now. Keen to know who's receptive, or actually bearing a child."A bit caught out by the topic change John takes a slow breath before responding.

"Well you did say she seems worried about our lineage being carried forward. Is it not just that?"

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head no. "Come talk to Sally, she's been interviewing everyone."

Archly, "What about Greg?"

A smirk dances across his landlady's face. "Well he seems busy trying to get Sarah to notice him, but they're all clustered over there so you never know."

With a wandering thought, again, at the cleverness of his landlady, John follows her over to the group of NSY people. Fraiser turns and gestures to him as they approach. "John, I was about to come find you."

With a quick glance at the others John returns his gaze to Dimmock. "Really? Why?"

"We were just rehashing what we know, and it occurred to me that Mrs. Turner has been seen in the palace an awful lot more than has been normal over the past years. My sources say she hasn't stayed this much since you had that terrible fever as a baby and wasn't expected to live."

"Well that seems supportive of her, surely?"

John looks around at the faces looking back at him, Molly looks horribly conflicted. "What's up Mol?"

Her hands fiddling with the bead bells attached to her dancing sash Molly's eyes dart back and forth, person to person. "Nothing, well not much... It's just..." she breaks off, her face turning red.

John reaches out and wraps and arm around Molly's waist, "Out with it Mols, it can't be that bad."

With a deep breath she looks John square in the eye and speaks firmly. "John, you know that alchemist in the bazaar that you've almost run off twice for selling potentially harmful things?"

"Uhm, yes Molly, what about her?" He squeezes her waist a bit more.

"Her new favourite customer is your_ sister."_


	27. The Clear Path

For JJ, who wanted something a bit longer ;P I promise the conclusion next time. ;)

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John's brain gets a little fuzzy and he blinks up at Molly a couple of times. "My sister is buying poisons from the alchemist?"

Sally cuts in smoothly, "Well she says she's only been interested in spices and herbs from foreign countries, anything to tempt the women into eating and becoming more fruitful."

John blinks and stares straight into her eyes, holding her there. Something he's not done since the night she crowed over pinning the Hanzel & Gretel kidnapping on Sherlock. That night his gaze had been outraged and indignant. This time it was just dark and all she could think is that she better not be wrong.

"Do you have any evidence to back it up?" Greg breaks in standing at John's shoulder, backing him up physically as well.

With a small voice Sally pulls back a bit, "No."

Nodding to himself John turns to Dimmock, "I want to meet this alchemist, sooner rather than later." Turning to look for the cook he shouts, "Mycroft!" who moments later appears.

"Yes Sultan?"

"I want you to go to the kitchens and bring out everything that you have been encouraged to cook for the harem, do not forget a thing."

"Of course sire." with a subtle gesture to Dimmock the two of them disappear into the house.

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Mycroft looks around for Janet, eventually sending for her.

"What are we going to do? John's expecting me back in there with a character I'm not sure is in the original play book!"

Mycroft gives Dimmock a withering look as quick footsteps approach from down the hall, he's turning and already smiling at the mistress of the staff, "Janet do you have the crib sheets for tonight?"

Janet looks at him shrewdly, "Why m'lord?"

"John wants to meet 'the alchemist' and I am required to bring the 'special spices/herbs' for him to inspect."

Janet nods calmly sends the person who fetched her off to the kitchen and walks over to a cabinet pulling out a bundle of material. "Just give us a mo. and I'll be ready to go through with the inspector there. I'm sure you can handle getting the things you need from the kitchen m'lord? They should have a tray for you."

Mycroft nod as she swings a large dark diaphanous robes over her shoulders. "Of course Janet, thank you."

Once covered she winks at Dimmock and starts for the doorway. With a start he looks after Mycroft as she hurries to keep up with 'the alchemist'.

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Once in the room Dimmock remembers his job, clasping his off hand over Janet's shoulder. Grimly he strides forward, toeing the woman behind him.

"Sire, this is the alchemist you requested."

John looks the woman over, her robes at first look seem rather worn and tattered, but upon closer examination, the cloth is fine and well edged, just seemingly cut to maximise flutter and the look of loose edges. She does not wear a veil or head covering and her hair is pulled back and platted down her back.

Smiling she bows to him, "My lord, how may I serve?"

John raises an eyebrow at how to the point she is. "You can start by telling me if you have been selling harmful things to my kitchen staff."

"And what would you consider harmful lord?" She smiles disarmingly.

John visibly stifles an urge to snap at the woman, schools his expression and explains. "Anything that would cause someone harm, or cause them to loose a child."

As soon as the sultan voices his question the alchemist's eyes flit away from him, and Sally sees that they land on the sultan's older sister for a second before tracking around the room. Leading with her instinct she jabs Greg in the ribs, "Can you go tell Anderson to keep Mrs. Turner busy for a while, I think we have to make sure these two are interrogated separately."

Greg smirks and mutters, "Divide and concur." as he wanders obliquely toward Anderson, who is still staring at the scantily clothed women trying to chat them up!

John watches Greg leave out of the corner of his eyes, but keeps the alchemist as his focus. Before he can question her further the cook bustles in followed by two servants who are carrying a large platter between them.

"What's this then Mycroft?" John asks a little frustrated.

Mycroft bows low, "Sire, I have gone and collected all the herbs I've received from this trader to show you." Straightening he urges the servants to stand in front of him so he can point things out for the sultan.

"Alright, you point out each to me and explain what they do. Then you," pointing at the alchemist, "will tell me if those are the only attributes that herb has!"

Mycroft shifts about a bit, then starts pointing. "Well my lord, this root over here is ashwagandha, which is a mild rejuvenate, also known as 'Indian ginseng' it comes from the Indian continent, and used as a tea is very helpful to promote deep restful sleep as well as making one more amorous."

Pointing to a long pointy green squash like fruit, "This I slice and dry to make into a nice nutty flavoured tea. It's bitter melon, just a general health enhancer." Moving on to the next, a bunch of small orange flowers in a bunch.

"That is tansy, which as a mild tea is useful against migraines." Pointing to an unassuming pile of green, "And that is mugwart which is particularly useful in stimulating digestion, such as after a large feast, but is also known for giving a person vivid controllable dreams."

Next was a pile of dried mushrooms, "This is reishi, which is quite useful, as a tea, against anxiety and insomnia. That beside it is anise and angelica," pointing at tiny seeds and star shaped seed pods. "Anise we all know from sweets and liqueur, but as a tea it can settle a cough, or settle your tummy. Angelica is very similar in usage and sweetness."

"Lastly," pointing at a small creeper plant, "this is goldthread, which is purported to balance a woman's moods and make her more receptive. Those are all of the herbs, and everything I know about them."

John nods thoughtfully, "Thank you Mycroft, particularly for being so quick about it." Turning back to the alchemist he stares at her for long minutes, then, "Do you have anything to add?"

The woman steps back shaking her head no. Fraiser steps forward and draws his kopis, sliding it agains her neck in clear threat. "You will answer our sultan or I will strike off your head here and now."

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Again sorry for the delay! All the herbs on this are real, except the last one. I'll post links to info pgs on them later!

Ta


	28. Clearing It All Away

Okay everyone, this is it! The final mystery dinner chapter you've been waiting for (sorry about that wait :/). For those of you who like where things are going, stay tuned for some (at least for a few of the characters) surprise revelations, but for those of you who were here mainly for the mystery, the clothes and jewelry, this is your last stop. After this full warnings will again be in effect. Ya been warned!

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Pressed up on her toes by the edge of the kopis, the alchemist blanches, her eyes glued to the bright edge of the blade jutting past her chin. "Oh I believe you Master of the Guard."

John sighs internally and smiles coldly at the two, "Stand down, the lady will talk." Fraiser nods and releases the woman to stand behind her. The alchemist rubs at her neck for a second then slowly turns toward the tray of herbs Mycroft identified. Clearing her throat, eyes flicking back to the sultan every few seconds, she speaks.

"Well the ashwagandha is just a nice energising herb, putting one in the mood, and the bitter melon is a similar fruit, but..." she trails off looking at the sultan nervously. "The tansy is a..." swallows a bit, "toxin in large amounts, will cause spontaneous loss of child and can be fatal to the woman if prepared too strongly."

John's eyes take on a harsh flinty look and several persons in the room make some kind of involuntary surprised noise. The alchemist presses on.

"Mugwart is also known as the best herb to bring on a woman's seclusion time, regardless of the presence of a child. As do anise and angelica to a much lesser degree." The sultan begins to lean toward her aggressively.

"The reishi is, as the cook said, harmless, but the goldthread, while balancing a woman's mood and making her more receptive to advances, prevents a woman's womb from quickening."

"Oh my word." murmurs Mrs. Hudson placing a trembling hand over her lips.

John walks away from the gathered people, needing a few minutes to work off his anger. After all he hardly wanted to have the woman killed before he discovered if his sister knew of these plants deadly abilities.

Frustrated that he can't seem to focus he finds himself standing over Sherlock again. Looking back over at the alchemist who is standing frozen, amongst a gathering of people who seem shocked and outraged, John calls out to them as he looks back at the body before him.

"Has anyone figured it out?" because I have, is on the tip of John's tongue, but he just raises his weary eyes to the others in the room.

Greg cocks his head, "Really mate? Are we done already?"

John nods, "I know who the killer is, and why. Anyone else have an idea? I'll give you first go." A few people look at each other, most seem confused, if not completely lost, but Sally and Anthea seem ready to talk. John establishes eye contact and nods at each in turn, "Bring my sister in again please."

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Sally watches John's body posture as he walks around, 'He looks fit to be tied...' Her mind is franticly flitting from fact to fact trying to see what John says is there, and then, as Mrs. Turner walks back into the room stiff and proud, she sees it.

The older woman is standing tall, shoulders back her eyes holding John's in a hostile manner. 'She's already on the defensive, without knowing that they have been caught out. Might have gotten away with it if she'd have stayed cool...'

Feeling a bit giddy her eyes flit back to Sherlock lying so still and in a sudden moment of clarity she gets him. She gets that in some way the whole world is a murder mystery dinner for Sherlock Holmes. It isn't that he enjoys the suffering of others, or has the urge to protect people, like she does, it's all about the riddle, and that is how he came to fake his death. After all, if he loved the dead, as she herself accused him of, several times, he'd have been happy to have a dead John stowed away in his fridge.

Shaking her head a touch to dislodge the thought she looks back toward Mrs. Turner and sees Sean's confused face poking up over her shoulder. Smirking in glee she clears her throat.

"I know John, I know who it was and why."

All the eyes in the room turn to her and her smirk widens to a full on grin. At her own pace she wanders back toward the group, where Greg looks on with pride, and Mrs. Turner is standing ram-rod straight avoiding Sally's look.

Calmly she turns to John, "Sultan, I, a lowly merchant, have solved your mystery." looking at John's expectant face and bowing to him slightly, "May I but ask a few questions of your older sister?"

John nods and Sally turns to Mrs. Turner, the New Scotland Yard officer obvious in the change to her body language.

"Mrs. Turner, I have heard it said that you were the one behind all of these additions to the harem diet, is that true?"

Mrs. Turner stares at her frostily, "I might have been, depends on what you are implying."

Sally starts wandering around the two women under question, weaving between them, seemingly for no reason. "I'm sure you are aware that we now know the true reason for these dangerous herbs being forced on the women without their consent."

Mrs. Turner gives no reply, her lips pinched together tightly in irritation.

Rounding on the other woman, "And I'm certain you, as an alchemist, have a sense of professional integrity. Or else you'd find yourself barred from all civilised markets and forced to trade with the barbarians in the north." The threat of being forced to travel to the Greeks and Etruscans to make a living, not to mention the Mongolians, is extremely vivid.

Everyone holds their breath as the alchemist visibly pales and sways on her feet a touch. Sally crows inside, the woman would spill it all now, no need for Sally to explain it at all.

Surprisingly it's Mrs. Turner who pipes up. "Oh for crying out loud woman, if your going to fall on your sword, get it over with!"

And the alchemist snipes back, "Well it is my livelihood you know. You can just sit back and live off your little brother while you bleed his family dry, I cannot!"

Turning to John she takes the few steps to him and throws herself down on the floor at his feet whilst recounting her story. "Sultan what was I too do? Your sister came to me in disguise, not a jewel, or veil to claim her station. She told me that her brother had an illness of the mind and she hoped to keep him from siring children so the infirmity wouldn't taint her family. I had no idea that she was talking about you!"

"I was very careful in my instructions, especially with the tansy and the mugwart, explaining to the chef that any deviation from my instructions would have the opposite effects he sought. I tried m'lord."

Greg picks up the argument as he turns to the woman, face a picture of disgust, "Ah but now you are caught in the lie. If you met the chef you certainly were aware the sultan was the mark."

Waving his comment away impatiently the alchemist replies, "Yes of course, in the end I did know, but by that time, the lady already purchased some of my herbs in disguise and threatened to mix them all together and poison the harem pinning it on me if I didn't help her convince the chef!"

Turning she fixes John with a pleading look. "I had no choice, but I tried anyway, I tried to get caught, really I did."

Sally reaches down and helps the alchemist to her feet, "You did try to give the game away, I know, that's how the ikba got killed, isn't it?"

Nodding a touch franticly, "I think he saw me going to meet with Mrs. Turner after hiding the mare. I waited, and waited at the bottom of the stairs for any one of the people at the stables to turn around. If I'd have known it was him looking I'd have hid, I'm so sorry to have caused this."

Sally turns then to Mrs. Turner, "How did you do it? How did you manage to take down the sultan's ikbal?"

Mrs. Turner, a haughty expression frozen on her face, shrugs one shoulder slightly, "It was easy, when I came into the room he was facing away from me, obviously searching for someone. I dropped the mare's ear covering and approached him from the side. He was surprised to see me, but quickly accepted the lie that I'd followed him."

"Then I pointed out the silk lying on the floor and when he stooped to pick it up I took up one of the heavy cast iron warming plates and struck a fatal blow to his neck. I'm certain I heard a crunching sound and he fell forward in a lump."

"Quickly I popped the plate back under it's dish and hid away in the servant's hall till you came and fawned over him. While everyone was milling about I merged into the group easily enough."

John, who had been holding himself still and silent, bears down on his sister and grabs her up by the wrist, dragging her over to Sherlock lying on the table. Once there he whips the cloth back and pushes her toward the body, using her shoulder as leverage, his voice hisses out, angry and intense.

"Look at him! Look at the beautiful young man you have killed with your scheming and plots. Look at HIM! What could possible be important enough to kill such a divine creature?"

Looking irritated, Mrs. Turner wiggles out of John's grasp and rounds on him. "Don't you dare try to make me feel bad about this! You are the one who is to blame! Imagine the shame of you choosing a boy for ikbal?! I could not stand to see our family brought so low."

Pointing at the alchemist, "I told her the truth, you do have a mental illness, and I know that with you out of the way, my son would be the one to rule. I checked with your vizier on that! Everything went as I had planned, except it was supposed to be you I bludgeoned to death, not him. But if all my efforts were coming crashing down, at least I got to hurt you, and take him away from you!"

John staggered back away from Mrs. Turner a bit, horror clear on his face, as Fraiser finally comes to his rescue and ushers his sister away to the guard tower. Staring after her he doesn't notice the movement behind him.

Feeling a bit like he's trapped in some kind of horrific dream John shakes his head like a St. Bernard shaking off it's drool, but he goes completely still when a long fingered warm hand comes to rest in the middle of his back.

"John..." Sherlock's voice caresses his ears as he spins around to see for himself Sherlock standing there. "I cannot believe it, but Sally has correctly concluded the mystery."

A smile curving his lips John closes his eyes enjoying the warmth and proximity that was missing with his flatmate since his 'murder'. "Well I guess you'll have to be nice to her now, since she clearly isn't an idiot." Sherlock's voice rumbles through the air to be felt more than heard, "Mmmm, maybe, but only if she stops lowering herself to Anderson's level. She could do so much better."


	29. Party On

Right, here's a chapter I haven't re-read five or six times, cause I wanted to give you all something for Christmas. I hope you aren't equating if with coal by the end ;P

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Still chuckling at Sherlock's comment John starts clapping for Sally. "Congratulations Donovan you've won the night." the room in general erupts with applause as well as a couple wolf whistles from Sean.

The doors leading deeper into the house open and Mrs. Turner, Dimmock, and the alchemist come back through already clapping for Sally as well.

Feeling he should make a point of it, John strides over and hugs Mrs. Turner and shakes the mysterious alchemist's hand. "That was a wonderful evening, thank you so much, both of you." Looking then to the alchemist, about to ask, John is surprised by Sherlock's voice speaking directly into his ear, warm breath fluttering over his cheekbone as Sherlock leans over from behind him.

"This, John, is my brother's chief of staff, she runs the house. Her name is Janet, a more capable lady is difficult to find."

Smiling at the way Doctor Watson shudders next to his flatmate, Janet sketches a curtsy, then turns to the room at large. "Well ladies and gentlemen, the entertainment for the evening has concluded, but there is still plenty of food, and desserts. If anyone would like a cognac or whiskey the staff will be through in a moment to ask around."

With that she disappears from the room and people start to move back towards the laid out banquet. John collapses into his throne with a sigh and pops his crown off his head laying it on the table. "My god I've been wanting that thing off my head all night long!"

Sherlock flows easily to his knees beside John on his bower of pillows, "Yes, I'm sure the fact that you were uneasy, the whole night, about impersonating a king doesn't factor into it at all."

John rolls his eyes, "Jog on Sher-lock, a solid gold crown is bloody heavy you git." Giving his flatmate's shoulder a bit of a nudge with his knee. "What are you doing down there anyway? You aren't the harem boy anymore, you could sit anywhere."

Sherlock quickly appraises John, 'he's tense, thinks I'll run off at the first chance, but doesn't want me to, clearly doesn't know what he wants.' His smile grows devious, "Well John, my plate is here, so I guess I need to stay put! Though I think I'll go talk to Donovan before settling in."

John's eyebrows shoot up, "Sherlock, please keep the conversation with Sally civil." his posture clearly displaying a different kind of worry.

Sherlock just gives him the look John knows means 'I'll just be myself' and Sherlock hears John groan in frustration as he walks away.

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Sherlock smoothly wanders over to the cluster of people surrounding Donovan. Sliding between her and Anderson, effectively boxing the aggravating forensic 'scientist' out, Sherlock focuses on Donovan.

"You did quite the job this evening Donovan, solving a mystery meant to entertain the masses," looking at the angry set of her face and flickering a glance back to John's worried expression, he continues on. "I was quite surprised that you had the right of it without all the clues. As I was also very surprised you got it before Lestrade did, but then again he's very distracted this evening with his paramours."

Sally, who was looking at him suspiciously, clearly not quite trusting his compliments, looks quite confused at his last statement and then a startled aura settles upon her. Not quite believing what she hears, Sally turns slowly to look at her boss.

Lestrade is standing near the table Sherlock was lying on during the mystery with the young doctor, Sarah Sawyer, and Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft. As she watches for a moment she realises Sawyer is smiling up at Lestrade coyly while leaning into Mycroft in a rather suggestive manner.

In the few moments she's watching, Lestrade reaches out as if to stroke the woman's hair, only to bypass her completely and stroke Mycroft's cheek gently. Seeking Sherlock's silver-green cats eyes she reads confirmation for the crazy idea forming in her mind, and looking back at the three of them she cannot un-see it.

Even as Sally thinks it must be a joke, meant to tease the doctor, she sees a flash of vulnerability in the elder Homes' eyes and a gentleness to Lestrade's motion that erases the possibility of this tableau being anything other than what it is.

A woman enjoying the company of her lovers.

Feeling the bitterness build up, biting at the back of her mind, already formulating the nastiest way of exposing the... Sherlock's hand on her arm shocks her into a mental standstill.

"Sally, you don't need to do that. After all of the hell with his wife don't you wonder why he deserves your silence?"

Blinking in shock she notes the others, that moments ago had been collected together congratulating her, were now talking to Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Hudson was casting worried looks in her direction, whether because of Sherlock, or her, she's not sure any more.

Marshalling her bitterness back into action she let's loose on the target in range; Sherlock. "I love that you, the freak, are cautioning me about my boss' happiness! How do you know what is good for him. Let alone, how do I know that your brother isn't leading him on? I'm sure there's enough familial similarity for him to be experimenting on random people in his life."

His crazy mercurial eyes flashing with anger, Sherlock turns to look at the trio across the room. "It really is simple, someone who has proved themselves not completely idiotic tonight should be able to suss it out." Half turning his body he gestures slightly with his fingers, "Look at the way they are all within one another's personal space, that is key. A person such as my brother and I are very disdainful of random people standing close by."

Feeling her curious look he rolls his eyes, "Of course you and I are physically close at the moment, we are talking over something that is of utmost privacy and I'd rather not be over heard." He pins her again with his sharp gaze, the colour remaining a grey dismal shade, "Can you think of a single instance I've willingly come closer than within my arm's reach of you?"

Sally's eyes unfocus as she tries to remember, "I'll save you the time, no, I have never been this close to you for longer than it takes to brush by you in a hallway." Blinking she nods and follows Sherlock's motion to look back at the three people.

"So to get back to my point, they are all physically close to one another, yet in a very calculated manner. If one moves away the other two move to re-establish the same distance. So not only have they been practicing this behaviour a lot recently, but they all have a wish to make the other two comfortable, to make them feel loved. Not an action that happens a lot in relationships that are all about sex, is it?"

Sally, glancing briefly at the way Sean is turned away from her now, not paying her any mind at all, shakes her head no, looks at the trio a moment longer, then looks at Sherlock with bitter tears gathering in the corner of her eyes.

Sherlock feeling an unaccustomed swell of pity for the hard professional woman beside him tromps a bit on his normal behaviour and deduces her in a totally new way.

"Sally, I'm going to call you Sally just for now, you need to cut Sean loose as soon as you can! He is stealing your youth, beauty and prime child bearing years. When you are with him you are mean spirited and when your not the bitterness you harbour over his wife poisons everything about you."

Giving a characteristic toss of his curls and judging how long he has till John appears, Sherlock forges on. "I don't care if you think I'm a freak, and I don't care if you are never nice to me in your life time. But you are often curt and rude to John, and that I will not abide when I can see a way to change it, and neither should you."

Perfectly timed as always John appears at Sherlock's elbow. "Behaving Sherlock?" John questions with a worried yet hopeful look. The emotion he felt earlier for Sally flips on it's head and Sherlock feels as though the floor is falling out from under is feet. 'Right, for him I will stop alienating people, but only for him.'

Stiffening his knees against the pandemonium of emotion within himself he smiles at John, a full happy smile. "I was just pointing out to Sally that she is far too good for Sean, and she should cut the dead weight and find a good bloke like you, well not you, but like you."

John blushes a bit and studies his shoes as Sally's jaw drops looking between the two of them. Her eyes locking with Sherlock's for a moment she sees a vulnerability that has never been there before, and Sally can't in light of their conversation snipe at him as usual. "Right! Know any good ones I could ensnare then John? Since you're not looking."

John shuffles his shoe a bit and then changes the topic.

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	30. Closing Time

The rest of the evening passes with a nice pace, and Sherlock has been having a surprisingly good time. Relaxing back into the bower of pillows his 'sultan' had the help set out for him, he watches Sally gathering her courage to cut Anderson out of her life. He knows she won't do it here, 'She'll fake wanting sexual favours and lure him over to her's, then she'll let him have it with both barrels. Good on her.'

Strong fingers combing through his curls distract him, "What are you thinking about Sher...lock?"

Humming lowly in contentment Sherlock's eyes slide shut for a moment, "I was deducing how Anderson's evening is going to go. I almost wish I could be there to see his face."

Snickering, John ruffles the silky dark curls, "I hope he doesn't wiggle his way out of it, he's a reptile that one."  
"No, she's serious this time." stretching his neck back and to the side leading John's fingers to the nape of his neck, "Maybe you should call Murray up, see if he's single."

John hums affirmatively and traces his fingers down Sherlock's nape, rubbing with quite a bit of pressure, over the edge of the trapezius muscle, forward to grip Sherlock's collarbone. He's broken out of his revery, seeking the perfect place to grip the collar bone, by a polite noise to his right.  
"Uhm, John dear, Marie and I are off. It's been a lovely evening, absolutely lovely..."

Mrs. Turner breaks in over Mrs. Hudson, "I never imagined something like this. It was unbelievable, thank you so much. It was such a thrill, and to be the villain too! Lovely."

Mrs. Hudson pats her friend on the arm calmingly, "Yes, you boys out did yourselves tonight, but don't you think that means you can blow up my kitchen Sherlock!"

Sherlock smiles widely, and leans back against John's knee, "I will not deface the flat this week."

Everyone chuckles and the ladies move off to say goodnight to the others. Slowly, as happens, now that someone has left the rest of the guests start to trickle out, and in half an hour there is only the five of them left.

Sarah, who, until Donovan and Anderson left, had been a bit distant, has since climbed into Mycroft's lap as he reclines against Greg's side. She was concerned, not knowing how much they were ready to expose of their relationship, about her own habit of being cuddly giving them away! Now Sarah is giggling madly as the fingers of both her men find their way under the layers of silk.

John reaches for his wine again shaking his head at the antics across the table. "I have to say, I'm surprised at how quickly the three of them have gelled together."

Sherlock pries his eyes off John's thighs, the muscles bulging as John shifts forward and back from the table, "I don't find the situation as untenable as I had, even a few weeks ago. There has been a startling amount of 'coming clean', if you will, about their wants and needs, which has in turn fostered a quick and strong bond. I have seen faster though."

John blinks down at him for a moment, "You have? Where? When?"

Sherlock gives him the 'we both know what I'm talking about' look and this time John feels an uneasy fluttering deep in his gut. Schooling his expression to remain curious John forces himself to wait him out.

After a few moments Sherlock rolls his eyes, "When I met you John. I'm sure it doesn't surprise you, after all this time, that I'd never wished for someone to spend time with, let alone actually live with me before you."

Feeling like the fluttering had spread to his heart and a heart attack was imminent if he didn't get the palpitations under control John nods solemnly, really not trusting talking.

Sherlock wordlessly gestures toward John, palm upwards, miming giving him something, 'there you have it', implicit in the gesture. "In a few moments your presence rewrote my understanding of myself, completely."

Pausing as though he's not sure how far to go, Sherlock risks a glance into John's open expression. Looking deeply into coal rimmed moulin eyes he sees that expression of love, boldly displayed there. The same one he'd only just discovered in his mind palace early last Sunday morning. Revelling in its existence giving him strength Sherlock keeps talking.

"I knew, before I left the lab that day, that you were the exception to my solitary reality. That bit of normal goodness that fits effortlessly into my chaotic lifestyle. Now I admit I put you off that night in Angelo's, but that was only because I'd never met anyone who accepted me quite the way you had, and I was leery of where it could go."

"But you proved you could keep up with me and even be as loyal to me as I already was to you. We break all the rules in the universe, Doctor John Hamish Watson, not even a threesome with my brother in it is a patch on us."

Bright and infectious humour lights up John's eyes as his lips curl in delight, "Did you actually just intimate our friendship is a stronger relationship and more unusual than the obvious sexual threesome they are involved in?" John glances over at the PDA going on across the table, then back to Sherlock, "Really?"

"Of course."

Moments after, looking deeply in one another's eyes, they collapse into giggles.

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Relaxing fully into being touched, and being allowed to touch his lovers how he chooses, Mycroft sighs to himself hearing the childish giggles from the head of the table. Resigned to being the mature adult who is always trying to get them to behave he catches Gregory's eye and jerks his head to the door. 'Let's scarper' clear in the movement, even to Sarah, they stand and approach John & Sherlock.

"Well little brother, we pulled it off! You stayed a convincing stiff, and I..."

"Managed to look human." Sherlock adds.

Followed on by an "Ow!" as John smacks him upside the back of his head, while Mycroft looks on bemused and his lovers are in various states of irritated amusement.

"Yes, well. We will be adjourning to my wing for the evening. If you like, the rooms where you got dressed are free for you to use for the evening." Turning and towing the other two away he offers a salute over his shoulder, "Wonderful evening still gentlemen."

Sarah darts back to give John a quick squeeze and whispers in his ear. John turns dark red and suddenly stares at the door the others are disappearing through.

Insecurity swamps Sherlock as he tries to read what Sarah whispered to John. 'He's staring after them, wistfully? Perhaps, but he's not leaning toward them, so not, but he is glad Sarah's happy. So why is he looking fixedly away? Nerves? Probably...no, embarrassed, refusing to look at me, not looking at them. Test to support conclusion.'

"John?"

At first nothing more than a murmured sound of assent, then John's eyes flicker to Sherlock taking in his most prominent features, his coal rimmed eyes, darkened lips and the slips of ribbon drawing attention to his privacy pouch. Quickly then, halting on his torso, before flickering up to his lips, then eyes and away again.

'Ah, definitely embarrassed.' Sherlock's eyes travel John's frame as he stares off toward the main house. His whole body seems tense, all his muscles corded as John rigidly holds himself still. Sherlock's cheeks redden slightly, as he steels himself against being caught out, and then he observes the significant swelling of John's crotch.

"John, what did Sarah tell you that has you so... distressed?"

John's face pales suddenly, then blushes anew, pinning his chin to his chest John musters his courage and says the words that might put an end to the most important relationship of his life. "Anthea told her to tell me that the gold dust she put on you is edible and honey flavoured."

Sherlock's eyes widen drastically as he notes John's pulse trebling, his own matching suit. "I see. Well then, shall we retire to our rooms?"

Relief making him a bit faint, "Oh god yes."

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	31. Shall We Begin?

****Just a little note, I had a lovely review from a Scot 'guest' who was happy with my use of a few terms. I just wanted to say we can all thank/blame my best mate for that, as she lives in Aberdeen and when ever I get some time away I'm up (from Yorkshire) visiting her! I'm actually surprised some of the more localised terms don't slip in too, after all I don't remember using the word 'wee' ;)****

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John strides down the hallway, his steps sure and quick, flicking a glance over to Sherlock his body thrums at the sight; like keys in the lowest octave of a piano with the sustain pedal engaged. Sherlock is moving like he always does, legs eating up the carpet, yet his pace seems unhurried. In his costume though, the minuscule tilt and sway of his hips is accentuated and this keeps dragging John's eyes all over him.

'Keep it together Watson, your going to have to talk to Sherlock before anything can happen, make sure he knows what is going on in your mind. What you hope and pray is going on in his.'

As they reach the doors to their rooms Sherlock wrenches the door to his room open and strides in without stopping to check if John is following him.

Who rolls his eyes and follows his flatmate. "Sherlock, I wanted to..."

Interrupting John almost mid word Sherlock whips around and takes a step back towards him, an expression of rapt absorption on his face. As John's sentence trails off, an eager expression flits over Sherlock's face, "John, come here please, I require your assistance."

Validation clear in every flicker of expression John nods, "Of course Sherlock. Anything. What did you need?"

"Anything? Good. Well..." falling effortlessly back onto the king sized bed Sherlock looks up at John, "I need help getting the sapphire safely out and back into it's box."

Laughing a bit John is drawn closer to the bed, "Only that, only you Sherlock." Exercising amazing control John walks past the invitingly reclined man on the bed and sits gingerly in a plush chair. "I think we had better talk about a couple things first."

Falling flat on the bed and fisting his hands in hair frustratedly Sherlock grinds out a sound of pure frustration. "What do you want from me, I'm inviting you to touch me John. What more can you ask?"

John shaking his head avidly leaning back in the chair he keeps up the sardonic smile, "No you've got the wrong end of it Sher, I really want to," John fidgets a bit uncomfortably in his seat, "but I want to be clear on a couple points first."

Sherlock effortlessly draws himself upwards and observes John without pretence. "Very well," pulling his legs up, feet flat on the duvet, propping his chin on his knees and lacing his fingers together over his ankles, "what points are there?"

The smile on John's face gentles as he takes in Sherlock's protective posture. Unconsciously repeating his earlier mannerism of tucking his chin to bolster his courage John arches an eyebrow and goes for broke.

"I am apprehensive about bringing this all up, when I'm fairly certain we could just get down to shagging and have a pretty good time." John pauses to see the confirming motion of Sherlock tilting his head and a self satisfied smirk grace his lips. "But I don't, just, want that, so I have to talk. Do you understand that Sher?"

His tone calm and gentle, none of his usual harsh urgent manner to be found, Sherlock responds. "Of course I will allow it, provided you allow me to ask questions as I see fit."

John nods emphatically, "Of course."

Looking closely at the man across from him, "Are you aware you've been calling me 'Sher' off and on?"

John's face is awash with ruddy colours, "Uhm no, I hadn't realised I was doing that."

Sherlock marks the embarrassment and nods to himself, 'Interesting, I wonder if he even knows why he does it.' Calmly Sherlock reads the signs, 'hmmm, he does.'

"Alright, make your points John."

"Will you hold your questions till the end?"

"If that is what you need, yes."

Nodding to himself John shifts in his seat till he's completely comfortable, then he fixes Sherlock with a stouthearted look, "Sherlock, last weekend I discovered I have learned to care for you more than ever. In fact I'm pretty sure I've fallen in love with you."

Sherlock's calm expression doesn't waver, nor does he speak a word and John blinks quietly in confusion for a few moments. Then, "Oh my god, you knew!"

Before further outrage, and John's face is transcendent with the rage, can occur Sherlock flings a hand out, reaching for John, to stop him. Hurrying to explain himself Sherlock shakes off the last of his nerves, "I only discovered it after you went to bed last Saturday night, well Sunday morning."

Instantly calm, John leans back into his chair and confusedly stares, "Really? You had no clue beforehand?"

Sherlock shakes his head, "I was, in that moment confused as to why you forgave me, why you always forgive me, so I went back and re-experienced all the moments between us since I returned from the dead. Each time you were looking at me with this hopeful, loving expression in your eyes."

John feels his cheeks heating up again, "And how does this reflect on you?"

Sherlock watches the restless shifting of the man in front of him for breathless moments while he gathers his thoughts.

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Yeah, I know it's a shit move, but I felt bad for promising to post tonight. I also noticed this was a wicked place to stop ;P


	32. Answers

Last time in The Gamble...

Sherlock shakes his head, "I was, in that moment confused as to why you forgave me, why you always forgive me, so I went back and re-experienced all the moments between us since I returned from the dead. Each time you were looking at me with this hopeful, loving expression in your eyes."

John feels his cheeks heating up again, "And how does this reflect on you?"

Sherlock watches the restless shifting of the man in front of him for breathless moments while he gathers his thoughts.

And now the exciting response!

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"John, you have to understand that you have always had a profound effect on me. Right from the beginning you were more interesting and alluring than almost anything else in my life."

John's stops moving completely sensing this conversation will require every bit of his attention, only his autonomic responses keep ticking along. Sherlock watches the stillness come over his friend and gathers himself for another round.

"In our first interaction I pushed you, now most people would have thrown a wobbly and left straight away, but not Captain Watson, no, he pushes back! You were helpful, polite, but serious about getting the answers you wanted. And when I deduced you, did you get upset? No, of course not, I thought you'd choose to just ignore it, but not a chance, first time you get we're discussing it and you complimented me on it."

Relaxing his knees into a cross legged position Sherlock leans forward gazing deeply into John's eyes. "Do you have any idea how many people compliment me John? No don't bother guessing, no one. Alright, Mummy, but not since I started school."

Looking suddenly nervous Sherlock looks down and seems to count the gems hanging off his belt refusing to meet John's increasingly worried eyes.

"Oh Sher, I knew you were amazing the moment I laid my eyes on you. I continue to be surprised by how incredibly thick everyone else is."

John's loving murmur makes Sherlock's gut contract tightly, lust punching through all the hesitation and worry. Slowly he drags his eyes up John's body, another surge of lust spilling through his veins as he notes the squirming John was doing, during their conversation, is due to his cock being, at least, three quarters hard. John's breathing quickly and when he reaches out to hold Sherlock's hand he can easily feel John's pulse jumping under the skin. 'Just like mine'

"I said earlier, no one has jelled in a friendship as quickly as we did and I meant it." Closing his eyes briefly to try and quell the surging heat building in his gut, Sherlock bites down hard on his lower lip.

John's pupils swallow all but a tiny sliver of blue as his eyes watch Sherlock's teeth press into his own flesh. Pushing himself forward in his chair a small moan escapes, "Sher stop that, or so help me I'll bite it myself."

A hastily released lip and a muttered "Oh god," sees Sherlock adopt his regular thinking pose elbows on knees, with closed eyes, his chin propped on his hands and clasped as though in prayer.

"There have been many times during our adventures that I have been drawn to you. Ever since the incident at the pool I realised I cared and that Moriarty was dead on about my heart. Which of course made the situation when I was gassed in Dewer's Hollow even worse. I was most afraid you wouldn't believe me, or couldn't understand why I was so distraught and so I was hateful."

"I should still be seeking forgiveness for that and a thousand other things. As I have often been petty and mean, I ask the most ridiculous things of you just to see if you will comply. I'm so insecure that I actively test you to see if you'll still stay, even if I'm horrid. I'm also often quite distant and frequently disregard your feelings, but you are extremely important to me. I have never cared like this. I don't do love, but I will try for you, I will try anything for you."

"You have wrought such changes in me John, you showed me it was possible to have a friend and a reliable person at your back. That one could care and not be hamstrung by it."

Happiness bursting in his heart John watches as Sherlock drops his hands into his lap, "Well, it would seem we are on the same page then Sher. What do we do now?"

Sinking back on his elbows and slowly stretching his legs out in front of him Sherlock coyly smiles at John, "Well, you could come over here and help me with the sapphire, like I asked before. Now that you know your answers of course."

Big wolven smile on his face John levers himself up by grabbing onto the duvet at Sherlock's knees and pulling himself over Sherlock. "Are you sure about this, I've never known you to display such physical reactions, or invite them."

Smirking up at John, "Is that your round about way of asking if I am, as Mycroft suggested, afraid of sex?"

Rolling his right shoulder in a half shrug, "My way of figuring out if you have enjoyed sexual contact before."

Arching an eyebrow, "I could ask the same of you, given how you have spoken about your sexuality in the past. I was under the influence of the notion that 'Three Continents Watson' was heterosexual."

Laughing John slowly lowers himself down over Sherlock's body, fitting one knee between Sherlock's, he slides his hands under the pale torso, palms up, coming to rest on his own elbows and forearms. His hands slide slowly up to cup the razor sharp shoulder blades of the detective from underneath. "Sherlock I am not gay, in that I don't generally have a craving for the male form, but I have touched other men in a sexual manner. There just aren't enough women in the military to keep me happy, let alone all the other 'Tommy's'*."

A surprisingly high pitched humming tone of agreement comes from Sherlock, "Well it seems to have done you good. Your attitudes are definitely more..." his voice cracks and the pitch jumps the octave as their groins finally, finally! come in contact, "flexible than I thought they would be."

Wary of scaring Sherlock off, after one slow grind John slips between his knees and works his way back down the bed a bit so his groin now hovers over the duvet. Looking up at Sherlock he shifts his weight to the right, and as Sherlock watches enraptured his left hand slips out from under his back and lightly traces down the side of his waist.

A deep grumbling sound transfers from Sherlock to John, as much through his fingers as it does through the air, "Oh Sherlock, you make such obscene sounds. Every time you groan in frustration or irritation lately I've wanted to shag it right out of you."

Feeling unaccountably helpless, rolled under by the sensations those warm, calloused hands mapping his torso Sherlock can but writhe. As his erstwhile flatmate gives him a saucy wink then rubs the oh so warm fingers of his left hand over Sherlock's nipples, hard enough to cause their own warmth from friction, he bites back a high pitched moan and watches as John lowers his head without breaking his gaze to Sherlock's navel and gently laps at the gold dust surrounding the gem.

All of the focus in the universe is narrowed down, all the white noise in Sherlock's brain is shut out as that soft, yet strong, wet muscle circles around the edge of the gem. 'Round and 'round it goes, every so often prodding at the glue holding the sapphire in place. After a few circuits John's tongue has found a few spots where the glue has come free, taking advantage of this he slides his wet tongue as far into Sherlock's navel as he can. The muscles under his playfulness tighten up and John can't help the grin as he starts sliding in and out of the navel as quickly as he can, pushing in with quite a bit of force, curling his tongue to push the sapphire in it's housing up and away from the skin it is adhered to.

Groaning to himself as he tongues Sherlock's navel, grinding against the duvet, not noticing that Sherlock is thrashing about a bit, one hand hovering over John's right shoulder loathe to touch, the other fisted in his hair yanking a bit to distract him, John changes tactic and latches onto the skin on Sherlock's hip and bites down sharp, but gentles it at the end sucking on the skin to bring up a livid mark.

Sherlock could swear his brain is aware of nothing but John Watson, everything else is static in the background, just white noise.

When John pulls away brandishing the sapphire and pops up off the bed to put it in the box, Sherlock hastily wipes a few stray tears away from his eyes, only to be caught. "Really Sher," John comments playfully as he collapses on the bed beside him to rest, "I can tell your a touch overwhelmed, but it will be alright, I promise."

With a small smile Sherlock rolls his head on the pillow, "Thank you John, for wanting to help me."

"Anytime Sher, any time."

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Now, I could end it here, and yes that looks like a wonderful poignant moment to stop, but I think after 30+ chapters of 'Johnlock' I OWE YOU more ;) But hopefully this will keep you for a few days.

Tommy's* is the UK Territorial Army term for a green recruit.

I'll not be around much for the next week, I'd guess, my beta and RL best mate almost got flattened on her pony by a lorry and dislocated bones in her left hand when she fell off (got tangled in the reins I guess) but she's being shipped down to me to watch over and keep from doing idiot things while she heals. So I won't be writing tones.

For those of you who like my head cannon, I plan on writing a few other dibs and drabs. Like how badly DOES Donovan hand Anderson his balls? Or what's going on in Mycroft's wing RIGHT NOW!

Lastly for Batman (Dark Knight Rises) fans you don't need to imagine the room the boys were in, just remember the master bedroom in Wane Manor which was shot as the interior set at Osterley House. Trez cool.


	33. Wanting You

This chapter is NOT WORK SAFE IN THE SLIGHTEST. Ask and you shall receive smut ;)

Looking carefully at Sherlock John makes certain there is still a bit of space between them, nervous of un-nerving his inexperienced lover with his proportions. 'Lover, god! I can call him my lover now,' flits through John Watson's brain.

Sherlock laughs softly, "Yes, I suppose you are now more than a flatmate, hmmm?" mild mocking colouring his deep voice.

Shaking his head fondly John turns over quickly, standing in such a way that his erection is shielded from Sherlock's view. "It never gets old, that you deduce everything about me, but really now that we've had our talk I'd like to wash this evening away. It was far too traumatic for what was supposed to be a fun evening with friends. Between the 'practicing' before hand and the vivid flashbacks during... not exactly 'what it said on the tin, now was it? I'm going to hit the head then take a shower."

Shrewdly taking in everything John's body wants to tell him Sherlock sits up and reaches for him, worry and self doubt clouding his eyes, but his voice is even and sympathetic. "John... I've seen it, really you don't have to hide it."

Flushing ruddy to his hairline John snorts, "What Sher? You've seen what? When?" frozen there, unable to move or turn around, he's standing facing the door to the loo. Sherlock slowly moves to stand behind him.

"I have seen you, erect, before John, in fact I've seen you masterbating twice, as well as deduced the size of your penis from it's flaccid state."

Shocked John spins around and scrutinises the other man's eyes, without vice, but a bit of confusion he asks, "When have you seen my penis, erect or otherwise?"

Sherlock flicks a look down to said body part, which is currently creating quite the pavilion in the sultan costume, clearly visible under the tunic, a slight warm smile tugs at the corner of both their mouths. "Starting from now John?" He nods mock glaring up at Sherlock.

"In reverse chronological order, now, obviously. Then this afternoon after you fainted I watched you bring yourself off." A look of delight appears on Sherlock's face over the new information, "Interesting aside, that fixed my wardrobe issue, thank you." John just shakes his head in wonder.

"Last Wednesday you exited the shower in your usual robe, Mycroft was visiting, but you were unaware and exited the bathroom in a relaxed manner, robe almost open. I was able to see it clearly before you closed it. Interesting, it hangs, very alpha male of you John. Has it always done that?"

John chuckles under his breath, "Yes, alright, go on with you, course it has. Tell me Sherlock have you always been ogling me when I thought you were completely oblivious. Mr. Relationships-are-a-weakness? Watching me wander about in my all-together lustily?"

"No John," looking away for a second, "the realisation that, you mean more than anything else in the world to me, came with the death of Moriarty, but the perusal, came after I returned." They stand there quietly for a few minutes.

"Back on topic, then there was the night I woke you with nightmares, which was actually an erotic dream about you choking me half to death on that," pointing at the culprit, who visibly throbs in the constraints, "and woke to an entirely new situation of having ejaculated in my sleep."

John looks vaguely confused, "Hold on what?" his doctor self cropping up a bit, "Hold on. Sherlock are you telling me, you've never had a nighttime emission, before last week?"

"No I haven't, really John, do keep up!"

Waiving away Sherlock's irritating superior behaviour, John looks at his friend searchingly for a few moments. 'He's trying to seem so self possessed, but...'

The soldiering doctor's thoughts are broken by a frustrated yet worried expression on the other man's face. After which he launches back into his speech, "Really John, I was clarifying something for you, shall I continue or not?"

Silently vowing to get to the bottom of his lover's comments John nods sharply, "Of course."

With a rough clearing of the throat he continues, "Very well then, the event I witnessed, that caused the nighttime emissions, was earlier that week, after our first practice session. I was taking a shower and heard a noise." Sherlock breaks off feeling a bit guilty and checks over John's expression again. 'Still pleased to be here, with me. Nerves rising, his cheeks have tinted red again, so soon after the last blush abated. So he's worried about where this story is going, worried about what is happening between us.'

Touching the other man for the first time since spinning him around, Sherlock protectively cradles John's hand, "It has been so quiet lately, in respect to enemies and home invasions," John blinks in confusion at first, only to nod his understanding as Sherlock continues, "that I became convinced an intruder was in the house. A common thought when vulnerable in the shower as I was. But then I heard a noise that I couldn't explain away and instead of just shaking my head at how mad I was, a palpable anger filled me. That someone dared to be in my home without my consent. The last to do so was Moriarty, and I'll be happy if it stays that way."

John lays a calming hand on top of their clasped hands and Sherlock snaps out of the fugue state he was in immediately. "So I went to check if there was someone in the flat. I left the water on, even went into my room, closed the bathroom door and then exited through my room, in case someone was listening for the sound of the water to change or stop. I never dreamed it would be you."

Smirking, his ears taking on the blush now, tone of voice self mocking, "Ah yes, I was busy wasn't I?"

"Indeed. I ascertained that the doors were locked, but noises I couldn't identify were still coming from upstairs. About halfway up the first flight I realised it was impossible for you to be under attack in your room, too quiet, and then I suspected you were doing something personal."

Sherlock raises his other hand and grips John's good shoulder hard, causing a sympathetic twitch of John's cock, "I tried to turn around. I decided you were probably fine and didn't need me, in any case my shower was still on, and I wanted to go back down the stairs. But something wouldn't let me, somehow my body betrayed me and kept walking up those steps, and then I saw you. For the first time properly I saw you sprawled out on your back with this," gestures to the pavilion still in John's trousers, "spearing the heavens, and I was stunned."

Taking in his flatmate, cum lover's face Sherlock tries to smile, "As soon as the spell I was under dissipated I left as quietly as I could. I was, and still am, horrified by what I took from you that night, and today, though not as much with that because you had no false assurance, like believing me to be in the shower, over your privacy today. I robbed you of that easy feeling one has at home, and for that I am sorry."

Not knowing what to do as John looks up at him with a thoughtful expression, Sherlock turns and walks a bit away. Stifling a sound of irritation John reaches out with his dropped hand and pulls Sherlock back to him, pulling hard enough to come up right against his flatmate. The stifled sound becomes a groan as their groins come in contact and John winds his arms around the taller man's back and locks his hands together over his buttocks.

"Sherlock, that has got to be the kinkiest thing I have ever been told in my life, and if you think I'm upset about you getting close to walking in on me, you can forget it. How long did you stay Sher?" John grinds upward a bit watching his lover's wide eyes turn dark with lust as the pupils bloom. "Did you see me come? Did you hear me moan your name as my 'spear' spit in god's eye?" Shocked arousal makes Sherlock's mouth soft and his knees weak as he tries to find his voice. "Erm, I... I only stayed a moment, three or four strokes."  
John grins raptor-like, "So you've not seen the main event."

Clearing his throat (really why was he salivating so bloody much!), "There was this afternoon, but I had not the best of views through the silk you wanked in or the crack I allowed myself in the door."

Chuckling now in a self satisfied way John runs one hand up into the curls at Sherlock's nape, "You shall have the best view possible, front and centre."

With that John turns and begins towing an unresisting lanky detective into the loo, directly over to the wet room and starts undressing him piling all the jewels in a large basket on the counter.

As John finally pulls the saka off of that lovely, long, ivory neck he places it carefully in the basket with the rest, "It's funny Sher, your costume was more than three quarters jewelry! You had more bling than the sultan, excluding the crown."

John's whole body quivers, as suddenly, Sherlock's breath dances over the nape of his neck and across to his cheek, "Ah but John it was quite the crown."

Not willing to look, at the moment, John resolutely faces the basket and strips off all his jewelry and clothes. Dumping them unceremoniously on top, clad only in the white silk briefs he turns to bully the man in ribbons and a privacy pouch into the shower cubical.

Sherlock, for his part just smiles into John's eyes, then deliberately and slowly begins tracking his intense gaze downwards. With a bit of a laugh, John shoulders past him to the controls of the shower cranking up the temperature and pressure before stepping back out of the way of the water, where Sherlock is waiting.

Sherlock's voice comes out in a gravelly rumble, "John..." tumbles off his lips like a kiss, "your pants..." Again he stops, a stricken look on his face, confused John looks down to see that the water has soaked through the silk making it cling and stick. His cock is sticking out from his body, all seven and three quarter inches* of it, arching upright toward his own navel and bobbing greedily every time Sherlock speaks. The material covering it making the heft of it seem disturbingly greater than it's five and half inch* girth with the wet silk forming webs connecting from the base up.

Sherlock slides to his knees there in the cubical and lifts a shaking hand up to the throbbing monster. "My god is it impressive up close."

John hums his assent as a hot hand hovers, just a fraction away, from touching him through the silk. "Go on Sher, touch it if you like."

The anticipation getting to him, Sherlock reaches out blindly, yet unerringly with his right hand and selects the shower heads surrounding them and turning them on. Seconds later, as he comes in closer to grasp the edge of John's pants, easing them over said erection and down; soft, warm, rain begins to fall on both of them.

John tilts his head back and moans as his cock is finally freed, "Oh god!" trips out of his lips as he feels the warm water begin to dampen his hair and run lovingly over his body. Snapping out of his trance he changes his mind and reaches down pulling his detective up to his feet again.

"I love to see you down there, but I know for a fact that that particular activity is a bit too much for the first go, no? Besides, I'd go off like a cannon and I want to savour this."

Smirking into the bedraggled wet face of his lover John reaches for the ribbons of the pouch and slips them from their knots while kissing droplets of water off the sheer edge of Sherlock's clavicles. "Besides," between kisses across to the other side, "I want to get a closer look at your todger* before our first go has gone."

Looking down he tosses the wet scrap of silk off to the side and slowly slides his hands over Sherlock's jutting hip bones, "Oh god, my hands fit just over the arch of these bones. Hmmm and my thumbs fit right inside the edge." Running the length of his thumbs up and down the edge of the hipbone John looks into Sherlock's eyes as he trails his right hand inwards.

"You know, I first got a look when we're were at the palace, before the debrief on Adler. It was really hard not to react when I saw it. Do you remember?"

Looking down with awe written all over his face Sherlock smiles, "You asked if I was wearing pants, purposely talking about my state of undress to confuse me, didn't you John?"

John snickers, "Exactly, I was bluffing by drawing attention to the very thing I want to hide."

"I think it's my turn to ask if I was wandering about all the time while you were lecherously gazing after me?" Sherlock watches as John's face takes on a decidedly smug look.

Looking down a moment John gathers his nerve, then looking up at his friend and lover cockily, "Well Sher, if you couldn't deduce it, I wasn't about to tell you!"

"Oh I see." Sherlock smirks back at John, "Well now, that is interesting indeed."

John's expression heats and smoulders as he finally wraps his fingers around Sherlock's cock. The detective's chest reverberates with an trapped moan as John's fingers inspect the heavy flesh in his hand. It's more of a normal girth, but a bit longer than John's, Sherlock's cock is flushed a dark pink colour and the foreskin tight behind the engorged head.

With a sudden move Sherlock half chokes as John leans over and slips the tip of his tongue between the shaft and the foreskin. Impossibly wide eyes jerk down to watch that soft muscle slide around the curve of the head of his cock and spear under the foreskin again and again. "Oh John," his voice all over the place in pitch and inflection, one of Sherlock's long fingered hands wraps around the back of John's neck, resting lightly, unsure of what to do.

Pulling away John smiles up at Sherlock, "Go on then Sherlock, you can ask for just about anything from me, you should know that by now."

His eyes slowly trailing up to John's eyes, Sherlock feels a fluttering of anxiety, "Leaving aside the fact that I don't know what I want you to do, I feel an urgency, and nervous tension that I don't quite understand."  
John smiles, darts up to give Sherlock a quick chaste kiss, "Then I guess I'll do what I've been burning to do. And you can stop me if you don't like it or can't keep going."

Sherlock nods, "Sounds fair, but do remind me to ask what you won't do later."

Chuckling to himself at the sheer normality of such a comment cropping up in this new activity, John feels reassured that they aren't going to regret the advancement of their relationship. That optimistic thought in mind he goes back to teasing the head and foreskin of Sherlock's cock.

Unable to stand without support Sherlock totters backwards to the wall of the cubical, John with an understanding smile follows after reaching back to grab a towel from the rack positioned outside the spray of the water. With a comforting smile he places it on the ground in front of Sherlock and patiently taps the inside of one knee to get Sherlock to spread his legs.

Looking at the cabinet off to Sherlock's right by the controls for the wet room, "Can you grab some unscented shower gel please?" John asks.

Sherlock opens the cabinet, having turned at the waist, the wall still holding him up as he rifles the cupboards for the requested item. After a few minutes Sherlock retrieves a bottle of John's favourite shower gel, "Bloody Mycroft."

John just snickers, having gotten the obvious implication that Mycroft believed John would be in Sherlock's shower tonight, and grabs the bottle. In reaching for it John places his palm on a part of the wall he'd thought empty, but the sound of more running water greets them and John realises he's hit some kind of switch. Moments later a sheet of warm water begins running down the wall Sherlock is leaning upon from a lip up near the roof.

John, for his part, stares, mouth open, as his damp lover gets sluiced with a thin sheet of water, "Oh Christ Sherlock, can you even get more sexy?" Incredulously John tracks the water flowing down, over his hair, stretching out is curls and down over his shoulders. It runs over his shoulders dropping off those cliff-like clavicles only to catch on his pectorals, running over his nipples and slithering down his perfectly defined stomach, sheeting over his navel and breaking over the base of his cock. Gently washing down those strong thighs to caress the backs of his knees, some of the water runs off there, and the rest slithers down to join the water headed to the drain.

Feeling a hard pulse low in his gut, his erection pulsing out pre come with every new sensation, John sinks to his knees on the towel and tentatively reaches out touching Sherlock's thigh with his spread fingers, only, with the tips of his fingers. The water greedily runs up to his hand, almost like it's trying to join him with Sherlock.

Groaning loudly John flattens his hand and the water engulfs him, running slightly up his forearm and pouring off hitting his thigh. Rotating his hand outward, the thumb leading the way to Sherlock's groin, the path of water is altered as John begins to run his hand towards it's goal.

Pausing for a moment, moans are ripped out of John as the diverted water runs down the length of his cock over his balls to dribble away from him, tickling and sensitising his perineum.

Sherlock echoes the lust from above, "Touch me with your left hand, leave the right where it is. If you move it I'll melt your favourite pair of shoes."

Stifling the libidinous sounds, John laughs, curling his left around Sherlock's shaft, "Well we wouldn't want that now would we?"

Excitement thrumming through him Sherlock tries to watch as John carefully explores his cock, but once his fingers have touched and stroked every millimetre John suddenly engulfs as much of the shaft as he can and Sherlock can't help but arch his back and thrust into the hot mouth surrounding him.

With a choked off scream Sherlock thrusts again, his back naturally arching upward, so far he raps his head, fairly sharply, on the tile wall. Stars swim behind his closed eyes as the dizzying pressure mounts and flows.  
In a quick surge upright John is suddenly standing in front of him, and his soapy hand is on Sherlock's cock again. All the while whispering things to him, "Oh Sherlock, I had to do that, there have been times when my jaw has literally ached to have you in my mouth."

His lips stop for a moment, taking a detour to Sherlock's nipples to roughly lick, then returning to whisper, "Would you look at that, you know every time you wear the purple shirt I wonder which is more taught, the buttons, or these nipples after I give them a good once over."

More licking ensues as Sherlock is mercilessly pumped, gliding in the soapy hand sublimely. Thrashing against the wall, Sherlock's head rolling from side to side, moans falling like rain, and climbing in pitch. Abruptly a thought enters his mind palace, a place that has succumbed to a continuous chant of 'oh god, so good, almost, almost there!'

'John, I have to touch John.' freezing and bearing his focus on his lover Sherlock musters his limbs into action and grabs up the shower gel. John watches with amusement, slowing his strokes so Sherlock can think, but as soon as the bottle is dropped to the floor he's back to stroking 'for England', adding in a subtle double twist to his wrist on the upstroke just to force Sherlock to lose his mind.

This results in the hand that was about to wrap around John's cock grabbing on rather tightly and stealing his breath away. John yelps wrapping his left arm around Sherlock's back as though holding himself up. Both of them go still for a moment, slowly looking into each other's eyes, judging what they see.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side and eases his hand a bit. John relaxes back onto his heels in relief, but his expression reflects... disappointment almost. With a quirk of his eyebrow Sherlock begins to move his hand, slowly increasing the pressure till John's left hand locks onto his waist and he's attacking Sherlock's chest in lustful abandon with his teeth and lips, while picking up the pace with his right again.

Soon all that can be heard over the water is harsh panting, intermittent groans and the occasional curse, John stares into the eyes of the love of his life and feels his world coming undone as his partner falls asunder in his arms.

It is heaven.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxx

Seven and three quarter inches*-I originally caved and typed 10"+, but upon read through I found myself thinking, no way! So humbly I did a wee bit of googling and discovered the average penis is 5.1 to 5.3 inches long fully erect with a girth of 3.5 to 4 inches! So the boys still buck (snicker) the average, but I can not in good conscious give them porno per portions... Ok ridiculously HUGE porno per portions ;)

For all of you who have a man in your lives, be it friend, family, or lover, please drop that average size info at some point, because while looking into this question I discovered that a shocking number of men are severely affected by what the 'perceive' as too small! Ta!

Five and a half inches*-OK this is pretty much porny cock diameter (I just couldn't resist!), but then again Sherlock has a lovely big mouth ;) (and that's why, meditate on that a bit)

Todger*-yet another British word for cock ;)


	34. Dinner For Two?

John woke the next morning in his own room at half eleven, moaning slightly he fumbles about for his mobile that is ringing incessantly somewhere in the room. Just before it stops he remembers that it was in his jacket, which is hanging off the back of his door.

Half upright in his bed John drags himself into a cross legged position, forearms resting on knees and just lets the phone ring out. The events of the night before spiral through his mind like flotsam on the jetty of a maelstrom, randomly jumping out at you and then being lost in the jumble.

Calmly John stretches as the memory debris settles and his thoughts weave together again picking up at the wonderful conclusion to the dinner party.

John and Sherlock decided they would head back to Baker Street instead of staying under Mycroft's roof. Sherlock suggested going and then John made an off hand remark about not being able to stomach the post coital looks on Sarah and Greg's faces, let alone Mycroft's and that was that! Sherlock was dried, dressed and down the hall asking to 'have a car sent round'. John followed a few moments later still laughing with their luggage in tow.

The car ride was silent as they often are, though they sat a fair bit closer to one another than usual. Back at 221B they quietly came in and settled, John made tea and they drank in comfortable silence. Then declaring half two as bed time John stands to go to his room. Sherlock, who was in the process of gathering up his violin, turns to John bow in hand and pulls his lover in close.

Mildly surprised, John returns the embrace and reaches up into Sherlock's curls petting them away from his face a bit, and kissing him gently on the cheek.

Sherlock turns into the kiss and kisses John back on the lips, "Goodnight John, sleep well, I will stay up I'm afraid. See you in the morning."

The incessant ringing of his mobile jerks John out of his memory of unprecedented happiness. Suppressing his irritation for the helpless bit of tech, John scrambles out from under the covers to get to the phone before it stops ringing again!

"John?" Sherlock's voice grumbles through the speaker at him.

His own voice confused and suddenly a bit on edge, Sherlock never rings, just texts. "Sherlock? Do you need me?"

"Yes, but not right at the moment. I had to leave before you got up John, and I... It's been some hours since we spoke and I just wanted to hear you." the sound of the detectives division of NSY muffled in the background gives him away and John has to grin.

"Right, murderers didn't take the night off for us did they, when did you get the call?" He can't help it, if a bit of his smug self satisfaction must have been in his tone, hell his voice screamed of it!

"Donovan texted me at 9:30; John Hamish Watson, don't think I cannot hear that smug tone of voice. Feeling pretty good that you have forced the mighty Sherlock Holmes to ring you are we?"

Sherlock's words sparking a mental image John feels he can indulge in now, he allows his voice to be coloured with arousal. "I may yet force the mighty Sherlock down, but to what end is the question."

A sharp intake of breath is all the response he gets for a moment, then a quiet moan, "John that is most unkind. Here I actually ring you..."

"Stow it Sherlock," John breaks in, "I know your curiosity just got to you and you called me up to 'deduce' my voice. So any discomfort you are feeling is completely justified."

"You keep surprising me John," the affection clear in his voice, "I should be home soon, it was only a 'four', but I wanted to let you sleep."

Vague memory of Sherlock playing some slow tranquil Bach* as John lay down to sleep leaves him unaccountably choked up. He manages a stilted, "Thank you Sherlock." Before taking some time and getting his emotions under control, Sherlock does not comment, "Well I'll order something in for tea then shall I? Have a proper night in?"

"Mmmm," comes the querulous response, then, "or we could meet somewhere."

"Like? Not like last time though please, I don't feel like fancy dress again tonight." John has a brief thought, 'if this is what happens when Sherlock is shown scraps of attention, I can't imagine what'll happen as this relationship develops!'

Seeming unaware Sherlock is quick to reply, "No, I was thinking, meet me at Angelo's at seven?"  
Feeling a bit light headed and as though his heart will burst John's grin almost splits his face in twain. "Not minding that at all, see you there."

Sherlock rings off without another word.

John giggles and leaps out of bed to go shower again.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock turns to see Sally adding some more photos of the crime scene to the stack on the table. "You heard that." not a question, just fact.

Sally sets her jaw and tilts her head aggressively, "Look fre..." she stops as Sherlock raises an eyebrow and sighs, "look, I have been a cunt to you in the past, and I'm not sorry because you've been one too. I called you horrible names and you told the whole department who I was shagging and when."

"To be fair, it wasn't the who, but the collective confusion that it was Anderson, he's almost as unliked as I am. He didn't deserve you Sally."

"And, your right on that one, I was just too comfortable to see it, yeah?"

"Indeed. So...we're both cunts and from now on no name calling and no deductions." Sherlock states, hoping that such a comment will end the conversation.

Sally nods and turns back to the photos. For five minutes there's quiet, as she looks for the pictures Sherlock requested, then, "So you and the good doctor then?"

With a quick intake of breath Sherlock looks up from a picture into her pleased, but for once not condescending expression. "So it would seem, did you hear the whole conversation?"

"I did, sorry, I never imagined it would be personal. I figured you were yelling at someone to get you results faster, or something like that, when I cracked the door, I heard, sorry, to my shock Sherlock Holmes acting like a school girl."

His eyes light with anger for a second, then he hangs his head, "I know, I am. I rang because I didn't see him this morning, that's not normal Sally. All I can think about is getting better aquatinted with his..." Sherlock rips himself out of his thoughts, snapping his jaw shut aggressively, realising who he's talking to, and what John would have to say about him talking about intimate details with Sally Donovan!

Sally smiles bitter sweet, "It'll get better Sherlock, huh, Sherlock..." she looks surprised to have his name on her lips and not her usual nickname for him, "in any case, you will find equilibrium as you get closer, your relationship matures and you finish telling people."

Sherlock falls quiet and she watches as he flips through photos aimlessly. After watching this for a few minutes Sally clears her throat, and when Sherlock turns his worried and sad eyes to her she wordlessly asks with an arched eyebrow. With an aborted shrug Sherlock ruffles his hair in frustration, "I'm not certain John wants people to find out, he's always proclaimed himself heterosexual, 'Three Continents Watson' after all."

Sally just stares. Sherlock goes back to work, even fills in Lestrade who finally shows up in answer to her page from hours ago, between them Sally's pretty sure they will solve the murder; she just thinks.

Ever since she met the sanctimonious git, Sherlock Holmes, all she's wanted to do is make him eat his words. She's never gotten the chance, excepting the failed Reichenbach debacle, and then it had been John she crowed at. Only to watch in shock as the calmest man she's ever known chinned the chief!

It's not a stretch to say there have been times she's wanted to strangle Sherlock whilst kneeing him in the bollocks repeatedly, but in that facial expression, when Sherlock was explaining they may not go public, she saw a raw agony that she wouldn't wish on anybody. In a way she felt a bit of solidarity with this chasm opening up beneath Sherlock, and somehow she felt for him deeply. So certain she is that, with John, this is the first time anyone has taken the time to get to know the mad man. To be in your mid thirties and only now encountering love is a travesty, and then to feel as though you can not shout it out? Sherlock must have thirty years of people claiming he's unlovable plaguing him, yet he has proof they are wrong and cannot use it?!

Sherlock and Lestrade are arguing behind her as she turns from the window Greg charges off slamming the door behind him as effectively as he can with control close doors (not at all in other words, he just gives it a yank and storms off as it slowly and patiently glides shut). Sally turns to see Sherlock looking at her a wary expression on his face.

'Wrong!' her mind shouts, in all the years she and Sean tried to reduce him to this with barbs and slurs, and Dr. Watson has done it with love?! It's up to her to say something. Clearly.

"You wouldn't be surprised if I said I hate you, or that I wish you bodily harm would you."

Frustrated at not knowing where the conversation is coming from, let alone where it's headed Sherlock shrugs and adopts his usual uncaring mien. "That much is clear, in your pedestrian mind, yes."

"And do you believe that even as I hate you, I think your a stunner?" Sally determinedly holds his gaze as a touch of blush dusts her cheeks.

Smugly now, "Of course, and in some cases hate adds to the passion in a sexual exchange, which is probably why you kept going back to Anderson."

"Shut it Sherlock, stop trying to divert me." at her stone-faced look he makes a gesture of acquiescence, "Everyone deserves to be loved Sherlock Holmes, and surprise, surprise, you are no exception."

Having given her pronouncement Sally strides off to find Lestrade and say sorry for leaving him to the fre... Sherlock's tender mercies.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

John grabs up his mobile, still rubbing at his damp hair with his towel, and dials Angelo. The lunch rush is probably in full swing, but John knows that the restauranteur will pick up a call from either him or Sherlock, so patiently listens to the ringing.

"Dr. Watson, can I help you? Do you need food sent round?"

"No Angelo, not today, do you have time for a bit of a chat after the lunch rush? I'd like to drop by."

"If you come round to the back I can talk anytime, the lunch rush is a bit of a lunch dribble today." The irritation is fairly clear in Angelo's voice, "With the talk of the UK leaving the EU people are being digestively racist around here."

"I'm sorry to hear that Angelo, well I'll come around in a few minutes then." and rings off.

Moments later John is barreling down the stairs and out the door, intent upon the restaurant. Deking into the alley, the block before, John comes to the back door and asks after Angelo.

"Ah! Dr. Watson what can I do for you today?" stretching out to shake John's offered hand.

"Yes, hello! Can we walk and talk a bit?" gesturing with his head and already stepping back and away with one foot pressuring Angelo to agree.

"Of course, one moment," he sticks his head into the kitchen and shouts, "Torno subito. Tenete d'occhio la sala." Then he turns and walks wordlessly down the alley for a moment with John before asking, "So?"

John turns and fetches up against the wall and regards Angelo shrewdly, wondering how to start. "I want to set up a reservation for this evening and I want to organise everything beforehand so my date and I don't have to place any orders."

Angelo, who was looking at John when they first stopped, curiously and with a pleased expression, is now glaring at him angrily. "No, no! I do not care if you plan on proposing to the your lady this evening, I will not have you bringing your women here! Do you have no respect for the great detective?"

John's happy, care free smile catches Angelo off guard for a moment and confusion replaces the affronted, defensive expression, "I was not aware of," Angelo stops and looks at the doctor again. He's standing there looking happy and...smug! like he's holding something back. "What are you not telling me Dr. Watson?"

Smoothly levering himself off the wall John steps into Angelo's personal space and claps a hand on his shoulder, looking him dead in the eye, pride in his coming statement clear in his upright squared off body posture. "I will be meeting Sherlock at seven. Can we agree on a menu beforehand or not?"

With an expletive of joy Angelo grabs John in a bear hug and crushes him for a long moment, "Thank you, I'm so glad you and the detective sorted it out. I'm sorry I jumped to that conclusion, but I've only ever seen you with women, and it was clear to me that Sherlock was not happy about that. Look at me I'm rambling."

With a smile John pries himself out of Angelo's hug and steps back a bit, "Yes, yes, I know we both suffered from... well a lack of confidence really."

Angelo gives him a confused look and then nods, "Right, let's go sit and talk for a spell and you can tell me what that cryptic comment means."

With a nod John motions to the kitchen door, "Go on then."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Seated a few minutes later at a table in the back of the restaurant with a shot of something black sitting in front of him John smiles at Angelo's obvious glee.

"So Dr. Watson, let's sort out the business part first then," with a gesture to the drinks in front of them, "we can get to celebrating the happy news."

"Right, of course." John leans back a touch, "Now my main thoughts aren't actually about food, but about set-up."

"Don't worry about the food, I will cook for you myself, light wonderfully tasty things that even your detective will eat!"

John smiles even wider at the clearly over the moon man across from him, "I had my suspicions that you would want to take over that aspect of the evening. Other than that I'd like to have an excuse to celebrate with some prosecco, I've loved everything I've ever had here, so have at it."

Leaning back in his chair, clearly pleased grin on his face Angelo answers happily. "Of course, at least one course will have prosecco with it." then contemplatively, "So what do you mean by 'set-up'?"

"Well, I'm not certain Sherlock is ready for a truly public outing, so I though here in his 'home away from home' I might make him comfortable enough with sentiment that we can revel in our new relationship without him feeling overwhelmed or embarrassed."

At John stating his restaurant is their 'home away from home' Angelo beams at him, but his expression falls toward the end of the statement. "I don't understand, you two are clearly in love, why would he be embarrassed?"

"Angelo, have you ever seen him with someone?" At the negative head shake, John continues, "Well as far as I can tell, he's not been in a proper relationship before and, well, I don't want to frighten the horses*."

Angelo's laugh escapes as a snort, "That's quite the way to put it. So you think that his general manner, of distancing himself from things, will make him feel embarrassed to express his affection for you?"

"In a nut shell, yes. I was hoping that we could set up a signal between us that means I think he's going to be alright and if I don't give it, no prosecco, no mention of the happy news, etc."

Looking at the earnest man across from him Angelo sees the defensive posturing and thinks to himself, 'this is no lark, he has Sherlock's best interests in mind, thank god.' "What shall this signal be?"

"The first time we came here you put a candle on our table saying it was more romantic, I weakly protested. This time I shan't and by that I can gauge Sherlock's comfort. Give me a minute or two and then bring over a flower, which I'll bring it to you later this afternoon, and try to put it on the table. If the evening is to go as planned, I won't object. However if I think Sherlock is too vulnerable I'll ask you to take it away claiming allergies. Sound good?"

Angelo nods, "Bit complex, but alright, flower accepted, green light. No flower, dumb down the evening. Got it. Now what was that nonsense about you both not being confident? You seem confident to me."

"Now I am! He thinks he's chronically unlovable so he shut me down pretty hard when we met and told me he was not interested in romantic relationships at all. But after Moriarty and his long absence, my enduring technique of diverting my affections onto random women stopped working. But I thought Sherlock didn't want to weigh himself down with such feelings, so I was resigned to being celibate the rest of my life."

Breaking in to the narrative, "Well what changed that then?"

John blushes a bit, "We had a murder mystery dinner last night and to say the costumes were a touch hyper sexualised would be sheer understatement." Turning the shot glass absently round and round watching the inky surface, John struggles to keep his blushing under control, "We both, well, reacted to the other's state of dress and in the end wound up in the shower together. So that's sorted at least!"

Angelo, eyebrows climbing his forehead in wonder, smiles, "True enough," picking up his shot if Sambuca and saluting John, "Well congratulations then." Downing his shot and smiling, "go on and get your flower then and I'll see you in a few hours."

John with a smile and a nod downs his drink, then heads off on his errands.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

John glances at the time on his mobile, 15:56, and mentally tallies the amount of time he has a between now and his appointment at his barbers at 17:15. 'Should be able to chase down the gorse first even if I have to go all the way to Greenwich!'

Stepping out of the 'Wild At Heart' floral boutique John heads right onto Regent Street to head up to Oxford Circus tube station.

Upon hitting a dead end in a Kensington florist shop an associate has a suggestion, "Sir, why don't you just head out to B&Q, they have gorse hedge plants for sale. Or for that matter one of the parks that has naturalised areas and lop off a bit of a gorse bush with a pair of secateurs?" And with that John nods to himself and rings Mycroft.

Happy that someone from the manor will meet him at the barbers with a pretty (as it gets) sprig of gorse, John heads back into his own neighbourhood.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Bach* Sherlock plays the Bach violin solo 'Air for G string' (BWV 1068, D major. arr)

Io torno subito. tenere d'occhio la stanza di fronte.* Well google tells me this translates as 'I'll be right back keep an eye on the front room' but it doesn't flow quite right to me (not idiomatic) so if there are an Italian speakers out there who can correct it, please PM me or put it in a review and I'll fix it!

'don't frighten the horses'* is an oft used quote from the British actress Mrs. Patric Campbell. When asked about her reaction to Oscar Wild's scandalous behaviour with other men, she replied "I don't care what they get up to, or where they make love, just as long as it isn't done in the street, and frighten the horses." she was fab! John quotes her because he's not sure Sherlock wants to admit to his sexual behaviour, gay or otherwise!

Flowers John collects for their table: borage = courage, red chrysanthemum = I love you, gorse = love in all seasons, iris = good news, hydrangea = heartfelt gratitude for being understood.


	35. Public!

At precisely 18:50 Sherlock approached Angelo's, at the last minute he hesitated at the door, not seeing John outside, or in their usual spot, but a waved arm further in has him pulling open the door to see John leaning up against the tiny bar at the back, with a shot of black sambuca in his hand.

As the 'great detective' manoeuvres through the door and takes the half dozen steps to John, Angelo sets a shot down in front of Sherlock and takes up one of his own.

"Come Sherlock, have a drink with me, I haven't seen you in weeks."

Indecision making him hesitate over the invitation, John straightens from his half slouch, "Go on then, a toast?" his inquisitive tone of voice almost half command.

Quickly noting the details of the two men, 'John is dressed smartly, but comfortably, went to the barber... eleven days early and with product in, interesting, seems calm and happy. Angelo is happy to see us, has gone to special effort, keeps glancing towards our table, so he set it special... John must have booked a reservation, he likes to give them some warning. There's a smudged cloth tucked into his apron, he's cooking for us, hmmm, well it has been 26 days since we were last here. He must be trying to make up for lost time.'

Wordlessly he picks up his shot glass and salutes the other two men before they all knock back the liquorice flavoured spirit.

"Good!" Angelo practically shouts, drawing the attention of a few other dinners, "If you two head over to your usual table I'll be by with the wine list in a moment."

"Mmmm!" John comments positively, at Angelo's instructions and gestures Sherlock toward the table. Which has been turned sideways, perpendicular to the window, set fairly normally, though the table cloth is a delicate pattern of lace and silky linen and the napkins match. As he sits Sherlock idly fingers the edge of the napkin, suspicion building in his mind, a uneasy feeling in his gut, he's about to ask John when Angelo materialises with the table candle again.

He goes through the same spiel as that first time, 'it's more romantic that way' his memory supplies a beat ahead of Angelo and Sherlock stiffens, waiting for John to object again, but he doesn't. Wrenching his eyes open he sees John smiling at him proudly and as quickly as the uneasy feeling arrived it's banished! In it's place nervous anticipation takes up residence as Sherlock looks quickly up at Angelo who winks at him and rushes off.

"John? What is going on?" he looks deeply at John, but other than he's obviously dressed for a date, he doesn't seemed fussed by Angelo's usual assertions they are a couple. With a bolt, his eyes widen, as the thought that this time they actually are a couple, occurs to him. Catching John's eye again he can only stare as his flatmate nods slowly, smile widening, as he slides his hand across the table towards Sherlock's.

Feeling like he's in a dream of some kind, Sherlock looks down to watch the hand, giving the impression he's afraid it is going to bite him, instead of, as it is doing, picking up his own slender fingers. Swallowing compulsively, his throat working noiselessly, Sherlock is horrified to feel the hot angry pricks of tears in his eyes. Blinking them away furiously he sits there deaf and blind to everything but the sight of his lover lifting their hands so he can kiss the back of Sherlock's hand.

At that moment a heavy hand lands on his shoulder as Angelo sets a small vase on the table. Sherlock reflexively looks up into the kindly face, 'he knows, he knows!' then he snaps to looking at John, who seems happy to have pulled one over on the 'great detective'.

With his eyes John lead his gaze to the vase again, and Sherlock notes the odd arrangement. Quickly accessing the meanings of flowers that he learned under Mummy's influence, but has assisted him on dozens of jealous husband/lover murders, he reads the message hidden in the blooms.

"Borage for courage this evening, hydrangea for heartfelt thankfulness of being understood, iris for good news, gorse for love in all seasons, seasons of what John, my mercurial temper?" John chuckles quietly but says nothing else, "Lastly a red chrysanthemum to say you love me. My, my that is quite the missive John."

Tightening his grip on Sherlock's hand, "Well Sherlock I think it's important you understand exactly how I feel, and if your up for it, I'll tell the world, not just Angelo and the ten or so people dinning here tonight."

The anticipation is suddenly galvanised into sheer joy, his small true smile of happiness cemented on his face he clutches John's hand back.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Halfway through the dinner, almost as an after thought, Sherlock pulls out his mobile snaps a picture and sends Sally a photo of John smiling at him across their table at Angelo's.  
Sally gets it, laughs and replies, "Get in!"

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The tiny restaurant has already closed for the evening, and Angelo is sitting at the end of their table, various dishes with sweets and pastries still cluttering the table while they enjoy espressos.

The happy couple is a bit giggly due to the bottle of prosecco and the big bodied red they had with their meal, so Angelo doesn't worry that taking both their hands in his would be too familiar. "more than six years ago you two came in here, hot on the trail of a case, but I could see it, that special bond. At the time I was sad to think it wouldn't be complete, but your bond was still so strong, I had hope."

"You have to understand," looking each in the eyes for a long moment, "I knew it was early days, that you'd not even known one another for a full day yet, but the bond," he draws their hands together and holds them in place till they link fingers, then let's go, "was already there."

He nods once toward the clasped fingers, "For the first time someone saw past the rubbish you put up Sherlock to keep people at bay. Someone who was worthwhile and steady, not looking to use you, or hurt you, but someone who can simply be your other half."

"And you Dr. Watson, you told me yourself in those bleak years that it was like being invalided home from the war all over again. By that I can only guess that the happy smiling, flirtatious man I met that night so long ago was created in those scant hours after meeting Sherlock Holmes for the first time. The laughing smiling man I handed a useless crutch to, a newborn version of the war torn hero."

"Now!" sliding his chair back noisily and standing, "You two go home and have another shower." winking at Sherlock's scandalised expression. "I have to get my wife's dowry tablecloth and napkins clean and back in the cupboard before she get's back from her sister's tomorrow!"

Laughing at Sherlock's red face John tows him out the door and down the street. After a few feet Sherlock grabs onto John's elbow to slow him down, then slowly looking John in the eye he reaches out and takes his hand, kissing the back of it, like John had done when they first sat down to dinner. With lighter steps they make their way home.

Pinned to the inner door of the flat is a note from Mrs. Hudson:

Boys, I'm off to visit my sister for the coming week as builders are doing some works on my bedroom. They shouldn't be a bother, it's Mrs. Turner's son-in-law, so he has keys, no worries. Be good lads and I'll see you soon.

Mrs. H.

PS-Sherlock remember your promise.

Shaking his head at it all John almost misses the odd, considering look on his lover's face, "What is it Sher?"

Mischievous look lighting his eyes, "What do you want to bet she's having her bedroom sound proofed?" he watches in glee as John turns bright red and sputters out, "I'm sure I don't want to know!"

With that he takes off his coat and trots up the stair, only to stop in the centre of the sitting room in horror. On their work table stands a large spray of gorse, shot through with irises, a lot of borage and chrysanthemums. Sherlock walks past him to scoop up the message leaning against the base and read it.

"Hmmm it seems Mycroft agrees with your message John, though he thinks you need the borage more than I do."

Noticing the slightly irritated expression in Sherlock's voice snaps John out of the shock and he strides over and plunges his hand into the gorse to extract a borage stem and a chrysanthemum. Turning to Sherlock he hands him the large red bloom as a distraction, then caresses his lower lip with a worn, gorse-scratched, thumb.

Sherlock closes his eyes, his lips part and John slips his thumb in for a second, then replaces it with the borage flower. Sherlock concentrates on the biting sweet, fresh, taste of the herb as John's hand guides him to chew. "Your the one needing the courage tonight Sherlock."

Upon hearing that commanding voice his eyes fly open as he takes in their aroused state. In a daze he turns and begins walking towards his room, turning only once to see John stalking along behind him like a wolf after it's prey.

Suppressing a full body shudder Sherlock focuses on his goal, the bed, and shuts out the image of John displaying animalistic characteristics. Like growling and mouthing the back of Sherlock's neck as he grasps his naked hips and mounts... Clearly that immutable part of his brain is playing dirty and exercising full artistic licence on his memories to create such vivid visitations!

A rumbly whisper directly in his ear, "Where did you go Sherlock?" the sensation of hands against his body, gently, but quickly, removing the clothing. Sherlock is shocked to realise he's standing at the edge of his bed with no memory of having gotten there. 'hmmm, interesting, usually I keep a base awareness of my progression through a room. the immutable part of my brain seems to have overridden everything.'

He starts again to realise their bodies are now bare, "Sherlock? I want you with me, where is your brain taking you?" Tentative hands are trailing over his arms and shoulders to meet behind his head to grasp his neck. His oddly consuming fantasy, 'yes that is what it is, a fantasy' rears up in his mind, but John drags him down and bites at his lips, grounding Sherlock to reality.

"Oh there you are now." John moans, the sound so soft and smooth Sherlock's knees go weak, just for a second, as he kisses John back with enthusiasm. "I was fantasising about you, embracing the canine impulses of your Chinese zodiac and it was very enthralling. I'm sorry if that's a bit not good."

John's eyes track up and down Sherlock's body silently for a bit, "You can tell me about fantasising over me any time." Gently, but insistently John's hands push Sherlock down onto the bed, pushing and pulling till he's resting against the pillows. Clambering up on the bed beside him John leans sideways against the headboard and smiles at his flatmate.

Sherlock shakes his head no, "There is no reason for you to worry or second guess yourself, I would very much like to take the next logical step with you."

John badly suppresses an amused expression, "And what would that be Sherlock?"

Rolling his eyes Sherlock laughs, "Don't pretend ignorance John Watson, your the one who stashed this lube," pulling a Boots bag out from under the pillows, "in the bed this afternoon while I was gone. Tell me, did you know we were going to use my room, or did you stash a bottle in both rooms?"

Taking the chemist' bag from him John pulls out the bottle of cherry flavoured lube. "Both, or rather, I got three bottles and left one in each spot I thought of as a possible location to need it." scrutinising the bottle a moment to get at and remove the protective seal, "I'm sorry it's cherry flavoured, that isn't meant to be any kind of joke, it's just my favourite kind. The other flavours are a bit too much, and the plain is just not right so I just stick to the cherry."

A wry smile on his face, "Next time pick up their red bottled massage gel, it has ylang-ylang essential oils in. I'd like to test if the aphrodisiac properties purported to be there exist or not." Sherlock thinks on the intent behind the lube and lets his eyes reflect that expression, pupils expanding and his breath picking up pace as he keeps his eyes on John as he shifts down and rolls away from John, onto his stomach.

John's brain shudders to a full stop as that canvas of ivory is exposed to him, Sherlock's head cocked back, his eye's burning into John's soul. With a broken moan he roughly grabs his lover's shoulders and kneads them for a moment, letting his eyes slide over the long sinuous muscles of Sherlock's back, as he struggles for equilibrium.

Sherlock, slides his knees up under himself, one at a time, thrusting his hips slowly up into the air. John whimpers as his hand caresses down the spine and gently strokes the taught rounded buttocks. Looking up into the dark gaze of his lover again John struggles to talk against the sudden pressure of his heart hammering and his lungs heaving in his chest.

"Sherlock, please tell me you want me to do this, please tell me you want me to," he pauses as the tips of his fingers stroke down the 'intergluteal cleft' his brain supplies, the very tips brushing over the delicate wrinkle of skin therein. Stopping there, he strokes a bit more gently, before moving to get the lube again.

An unreal moaning, squealing sound comes from Sherlock who twists around grabbing Johns arm in a harsh grip on his forearm. "Don't you dare stop, I haven't wandered off into my mind palace, I'm fully aware and consenting, so you had better not be stopping!"

John chuckles warmly against his shoulder as he shifts down the bed beside him, "Not going anywhere, no worries mate." his fingers, now coated, slipping down the cleft again, his two middle fingers rubbing behind Sherlock's bollocks in circular patterns with slowly increasing pressure.

Hissing quietly, Sherlock at first moans, rocking his hips down toward the bed, then back again, as John's fingers press even more insistently against his perineum.

"Do you like that Sher? Hmm?" sliding his fingers back to tease closer to his entrance, "Do you like the feel of my thick fingers rubbing at you there?"

A grumpy expression evident, Sherlock bucks against John's hand, "No, actually!" before John can pull away in confusion, "I'd rather it was your cock frankly. Can we please progress a bit faster?"

Flushing with need John slathers his impressive thickness; choking back the urge to just paint Sherlock's lower back and arse with his spend. "It will be a bit yet, unless you want to be going into A&E with anal fissures." Coating his fingers again, John holds his breath as he rubs it in, trying to get some of it into Sherlock's opening. Sherlock for his part assists John's efforts by suddenly shifting back towards his heels quickly. Startled, John doesn't manage to move his hand before Sherlock's arse envelops the tips of two of John's fingers.

With a startled sound both freeze in a tableau for a moment until John removes his ring finger leaving his middle finger to be swallowed up by his flatmate's arse to the first knuckle. Holding his breath while drizzling on a bit more lube John's vision narrows down to the sight do his finger being drawn inward with minimal force, "Oh good lord Sherlock, tell me that's okay, please! I need to add another finger now!"

Groaning Sherlock rocks back suddenly, bearing down and forcing his body to accept John, "Yes, god, yes! All of them, now, now! John, now." He writhes against the bed, his chest rubbing against the pillows and duvet cover, everything is making his body over sensitive, he shifts his weight over onto his left arm as he tries to worm the other underneath himself to provide his own cock with friction.

John simply stops his arm, "No Sherlock, don't distract yourself now." Slowly he withdraws his finger and adds his index finger, tucking it under middle finger, curling the tip of his middle finger down a bit to minimise the impact of the second digit. Twisting his hand a bit as he applies pressure and the digits slide in quite easily.

Sherlock stills and can do naught but moan as John proceeds to add his other fingers in rapid succession. Still riding on a slick layer of lube, Sherlock bites down on his lips every time John glides in, almost allowing the softened opening to swallow the folded palm of his hand whole.

Sherlock's body is shuddering, like a horse driven to run - till collapse takes it - John fares little better, never has another's body so greedily enveloped him, never before has this awe inspiring ability of the human body, to embrace pleasure, startled him so much. After all, quaking under the onslaught of John's fingertips, brushing his innermost sanctum, is Sherlock Holmes, mad, beautiful, Sherlock Holmes.

Gently shushing the ragged moans coming from Sherlock, John withdraws his hand slowly, giving the prostate a long stroke on the way out. Sherlock bucks forward as the last digit leaves him and immediately thrusts his hips back, his hands tightening in the pillow cover, trying to pull it closer and push it away at the same time!

John for his part is beyond speech, and the sounds Sherlock is making are low, rough, and eager. Reaching under and across his body, John grabs at Sherlock's right shoulder from the left, yanking inelegantly. Being a genius Sherlock realises what motion John was trying to indicate, rolls over and wiggles himself into the centre of the bed, feet placed with determination well wide on the duvet.

Feeling a deep sense of surreality John leans over Sherlock sliding his hands up the backs his love's thighs, forcing his knees even wider, he pushes till they are almost flush with the flawless ivory chest below him. Knee-walking forward, till he's nudged right up against Sherlock's arse John props the left leg up on his shoulder to free up his right hand.

He makes sure Sherlock's back is straight and flat to the bed, excluding the lower coccyx area that is rolled upwards with his knees more or less bent to his chest, John checks to make sure they still have enough lube applied and then takes himself in hand and tries to shake off the mutism that this experience is causing him.

"Sherlock, I'm going to enter you now, and it might get a bit wild. Please try to remember that quick movements can ruin the night for us. Trips to A&E, you understand?" Clutching to the knee and upper thigh of Sherlock's left leg John begins the process of sheathing his cock in his flatmate.

Distantly Sherlock hears John say something about things going badly, but for the life of him he cannot concentrate on anything other than the feeling of John's penis nudging at his arse, like a needy thing looking for it's way home. 'oh my god my mind is broken!' He knows he has to bare down, to force the muscles to relax, and accept the monolith at his door. A keening sound is trapped in his throat as a rippling pain dancing the knife's edge of tolerance fires up his nerves.

John's voice seems far-off, and the thread of words is impossible to follow, one or two make it through, "...snug, tight, oh god, oh god..." it almost seems like he's fainting the way the sound is fading in and out like that. 'I wonder if after the event I'll be able to remember the bits I can't hear now?'

At that moment the steady rocking forward of the intruding organ bumps up against the lower edge of his prostate and Sherlock is helpless as his body jack-knifes, his left leg clenching, along with every other muscle in his body, and jerking John's body to him, forcing himself fully onto John's cock. Howling in delirium Sherlock can feel the frantic flexing of the python inside him.

Powerless against the raging sensations, he has to move, he has to try. His feet scrabble at the duvet, he claws John closer, then pushes away, completely confused he watches, as if from a distance as his body is taken over for a while and it begins to figure out what it wants. Seconds after Sherlock sees his body figuring it all out John begins to move. At first it's just a gentle rocking, like at the beginning of penetration, but now it's testing to see if Sherlock's anal muscles have relaxed enough for him to move. They have not.

And in the next moment they have and John pulls all the way back and strokes in. In that rush of hormones and sensation Sherlock is back in himself, riding the python instead of just watching from a safe distance.

"Oh god John..." escapes him on the second stroke as he begins to up the tempo. Every time, in or out, the length drags on his prostate, sending sparks showering through his core to his ignored penis that bobs and jerks in the air pumping pre-ejaculate out onto his own abdomen at a steady dribble. His whole body is tightening up and ratcheting the pressure up, stroke after stroke, where to? He has no idea, Sherlock has never been here before.

John's lips are suddenly feathering against his cheekbone, "How is it love? Are we ticking all the boxes now then? Got one more for you." with that he pulls all the way out and begins twisting Sherlock's hips round, jostling him up onto his knees, he grabs roughly at Sherlock's hips and pushes him forward into position so he can just ram in. 'oh god, fantasy?'

With just a slight check to make sure he was lined up well John then wrenches Sherlock's hips back to meet his pelvis with a sharp, shocking slap. Incapable of articulating a thing Sherlock hangs his head and just enjoys the pounding. He can feel how it has changed with the positioning, before John's cock was just sliding by the gland, sensitising it by proximity. Now the head of the cock is ramming into it, then pressing into it forcing the shape of his body to shift accommodating to his size. The almost right angle in there that has the prostate at it's base is flattened out which has quite the effect.

Without warning, John's hands are pulling his shoulders up, still jacking into him solidly, but levering him up off the bed so he's leaning his back onto John's barrel chest. "What was it you said about fantasy Sher?" his arms wrap tightly around Sherlock, pinning his hips in place. "Canine aspects?" he begins to mouth around Sherlock's nape, scraping his incisors over the arch of Sherlock's trapizious muscle, suckling and gnawing, bringing up a huge mark on Sherlock's flesh.

The tightening trebles, and Sherlock doesn't know what to do. Hesitantly he brings up a hand and balances a bit on the head board, subtly pushing back against the onslaught from behind.

"Oh go on then." trickles out of John, sticky sweet, like treacle and Sherlock snaps the other hand up, distributes his weight and starts shoving back against John's weight in perfect counterbalance. A quiet chant of... "yes, yes, yes, yes..." begins but Sherlock cannot be sure which of them it is that is saying it.

Feeling like he's leaping forever upwards toward his culmination, Sherlock feels a bit distraught, he's not sure about this lack of control, about what is going to happen. Then it happens, he feels a warmth spreading through him and an almost sick feeling, like a roller coaster, he's ejaculating without a single touch to his cock and he's almost convinced that the little adrenalin skip is over when John's lips are brushing his ear,  
"There's just one thing Sherlock, I was born in the year of the pig, not the dog, that was 1970."

As the pleasure takes him again and his brain whites out completely, he thinks, 'there's always something.'


	36. Tea For Three

A few weeks pass them by in a rush after their dinner at Angelo's and life resumes it's normal pattern. John tidies and makes cups of tea, while Sherlock bolts from the flat as soon as Lestrade texts with an interesting case.

After one such race about town they return to 221B tired, cold and looking forward to a relaxing cup of tea. Moments after they entered the flat itself they hear Mrs. Hudson's characteristic, "Whoo-hoo," John steps back out the sitting room door and looks down the stairs to see their landlady looking up at him.

"Is it alright if I come up in ten minutes, it's been a while since we had a chat."

Pursing his lips in confusion, John, none the less, responds. "Of course Mrs. Hudson, come on up, I'll put the kettle on."

He's further befuddled by her response, "No worries dear, I'll bring a tray up, I just made some cake and a pot of tea." with that she disappears back into 221A.

His head tilted sharply to the right John turns and strides back into the sitting room whilst his brow draws down in frustrated confusion. Now that he thinks about it they haven't seen Mrs. Hudson since the dinner at the manor. At first she had gone off to see her sister while some work was done on her flat. Then, when she came back, other than Sherlock telling him she'd dropped round with this or that while he was at work, John had only seen her, in passing, in the common front-hall of the building.

Sherlock nods, "She has been avoiding coming up here, yes it is because she's worried about walking in on us. I suggest we agree upon some method of warning her that we're ha..."

"Sherlock!" John breaks in harshly, then continues a bit softer, "I beg you, do not finish that sentence! And if you must bring up anything about our physical relationship, please for the love of god use a euphemism."

Just a tiny bit of a wheedling tone of voice, "But John, if I do that, then my intent may not be clear. Which could lead to horrible misunderstandings."

Mentally groaning John gives in to the inevitable, "Let me do the talking then." his suspicions confirmed as Sherlock's expression is instantly sunny and he rushes to give John a peck on the cheek.

"Thank you John."

Then again, maybe he was actually just as uncomfortable talking about it, for different reasons than John was and yet he had the feeling...

"Boys?" Mrs. Hudson hovers in the doorway, for the first time a bit uncertain. John grins at her and relieves her of the tray. "Bless, Mrs. Hudson, we could have come down to you, you shouldn't have to carry this heavy thing about."

Typical Martha Hudson behaviour, she waves him off, "Oh don't be silly, my hip gives me some grief, but not that much." she none the less looks relieved for John to be taking the thing off her. Her eyes dart around the flat, taking in the neat piles of papers in the sitting room, the orderly mess of the table (the microscope and all experiment paraphernalia has been shifted leaving more open space for normal uses), and the lack of dishes in the sink.

"Well, looks like Sherlock has kept his promise, haven't you dear." she dismissively pats him on the arm. Normally this would have had Sherlock reacting, pulling his cold personality on like armour, but no, not this time.

Sherlock smiles down at Mrs. Hudson and then turns his head to watch John positioning the tray on the work table. "I've not had an opportunity to conduct any experiments in the last weeks."

Smiling she squeezes his arm and then steps past him to receive the cup of tea John was holding out to her. "Thank you John."

For a few minutes there is companionable silence as everyone sits. John offers his seat to the lady he looks upon as their 'ersatz mother' and pulls one of the work table chairs out to sit beside Sherlock's leather chair.

Watching the little glances between them Martha grins like a school girl in her mind, outwardly putting on a mock scolding expression. "Now boys, I expect, that if the neighbours complain about the noises at night, you will be sound proofing your room. At your own cost mind. I do not see that as part of our leasing agreement."

John sits as though frozen and Sherlock sputters weakly on tea swallowed the wrong way, though he recovers first. "Well that neatly gets around the difficulties in broaching the topic. Now doesn't it John?"

With a cough John starts out of his mortified trance, "It does, yes." carefully setting down his cup and saucer John rubs a hand over his face roughly, he restlessly sits back toying with the handle of his cup, avoiding both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock's eyes. "It would seem like we need to discuss some warning signs or..."

"Oh seriously now," she breaks in over John, who pulls back a bit surprised, "I might not be getting up to all the high jinks you two are, at my time of life, but I can still tell when two people are about to fall upon one another."

She sips her tea quietly, waiting, watching John work through being shocked silent a second time, picking up his tea and taking a sip.

With a devilish smirk she hides behind the rim of her cup, "Besides, if the worst did happen neither of you is too difficult to look at, I'm sure it would be worse for you than it would be for me."

With this pronouncement, Mrs. Hudson moves to leave. "Keep the tray a bit dears, must dash, I have an appointment with the physio for my hip." Sherlock watches her leave with wide eyes as he is thumping a coughing John, who tried to swallow and at the same time spit the tea out his nose, on the back.

After that Mrs. Hudson resumed her mothering routine, if she gavel her lodgers an earlier warning, calling out for them before she starts up the stairs instead of at the door to the sitting room, well that gave ample time to scramble to the loo, or Sherlock's room and put something on.

If Sherlock doesn't flounce about proclaiming his boredom to the world anymore, or takes precautions, when doing experiments in the flat, that nothing is damaged, and no one is harmed, then John smiles and drops a kiss amongst the unruly curls.

If he hovers in the door on the way to a crime scene, wordlessly giving John time to put his cup of tea down, or get out of the shower, no one knows, but Sally smiles at them every time he hesitates at the barrier tape instead of erratically leaving while John is still talking to Lestrade.

If he doesn't bait his brother so badly, and from time to time actually helps him, not a soul dares mention it. It is a thing to behold the two Holmes brothers taking ahold of an issue from either end and unraveling it till they meet in the middle. All one can do is stand by and look on in awe.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

And that's it for the main Johnlock story 'The Gamble', thank you everyone who has read, followed and encouraged me in this, JJ (junejuly15) and Sendai I'm looking at you here. A HUGE thank you to my fanfic hero Skyfullofstars, thank you for reading my story and saying such nice things about it. If you don't know any of these people, look them up ;)

You can look forward to more in this AU, though as small break while I write something else for someone, will happen now.

xxxxxPRIVATE NOTE TO THE 'GUEST' VIOLINIST who reviewed ch 13xxxxx

As hard as it may be to believe, but I meant to use the term 'half tempo' in that exact way, but NOT as you have assumed I meant. Having been a musician for 25 years (though currently taking time off to raise children) I have done this many, many times. When learning a new and difficult piece, with killer runs that are so fast there is bairly any time to produce the sound you need; one takes the passage at 'half tempo' to learn it and get a grip on the foundations of the passage. Just like Sherlock is taking apart the memory to see how it goes together in the first place.

But I thought, wait a minute, maybe I was wrong, maybe babybrain has rotted even THAT away in my head, so I asked. I asked a performing soprano, who is also a Musicologist, Uni Lecturer, organist, obo player, composer and my best mate since we were 14. She uses 'half tempo' in this way, constantly. Especially with Schönberg's 8 Lieder, yikes!


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